


Dirty Words and Other Curses

by amyoatmeal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkward Tension, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas uses his powers, Case Fic, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel is Not Oblivious, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Curses, Dean uses the wrong words, Dubious Consent, Humor, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hunter Castiel, Language, M/M, Monster of the Week, Monsters, Post-Case, Protective Castiel, Saving People Hunting Things, Showering Dean Winchester, Slice of Life, Smut, Spell Failure, Spells & Enchantments, Team Free Will, Team Free Will 2.0, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Witchcraft, jack is powerless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-07-02 00:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15784818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyoatmeal/pseuds/amyoatmeal
Summary: Team Free Will 2.0 are on a standard hunt when things get a little dicey and Dean lands himself in a bind.  While Sam, Cas, and Jack search for Dean, Dean is blissfully unaware of his surroundings, existing instead within a fabricated, strangely familiar reality inside his own mind… Except for one thing.  Soon this milk run ends up being a bit more than meets the eye.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! This fic sprouted from a very small seed. I always say that no matter how bad the writing on the show gets, I would watch it for the characters alone. Even if that meant watching them play scrabble for an hour in the bunker. And that's literally the only thing that caused this... and then somehow my mind ran away with it and there's this whole elaborate crangsty story surrounding it. So here you go I guess. I hope you like it! xo
> 
> Also, I chose not to use Archive Warnings because it has elements of dub-con and canon typical violence, but not enough where I feel it requires an Archive Warning. So I guess just go into this with the knowledge it's not completely innocent, but it's not going to scar you either.

“This is the place. Turn up here,” points Sam, closing out the GPS on his phone.

“Huh, looks like every other shit hole.”

Dean lowers the volume on the radio and dims the headlights as they pull up outside an old, abandoned factory that once housed the business ‘Hot Press Games’ according to the dilapidated sign hanging by a nail. The local sheriff’s department got a call reporting some unusual activity here, but claimed to have found nothing while doing a sweep of the building last week. None of the people they spoke with earlier could keep their stories straight either so they aren’t even sure what they’re walking into. Sounded like some sort of witch though based on the descriptions they were given.

“What’s the plan?” Cas asks Dean from the backseat of the Impala. 

“We split up. Sam, you go with Cas, the kid’s comin’ with me,” orders Dean as he parks Baby on the far end of the empty parking lot. They’d gotten into an argument before receiving the call for this case. Something about Sam and Cas not thinking that Dean was trying hard enough to get to know Jack. Not trying his ass.

Sam and Cas share a pointed look over the seat, but Jack seems content with the arrangement. Dean gets out, not waiting for the others, and rounds the side of the car. Popping open the trunk, he lifts the cover and rifles through some much needed weaponry. Considering they have no solid evidence as to what it is they’re hunting, it can’t hurt to throw in a little bit of everything. Cas even found a spell in one of their old books. A kind of cure-all type thing for whatever bad mojo they might run into. 

“Dean,” says Cas in a hushed tone. Dean keeps on rifling through. “ _Dean_ ,” he repeats.

“Yeah, what? Little busy here, Cas.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea for us to split up? We don’t even know what we’re dealing with yet.”

Dean stops for a moment to look up at him, assessing the concerned crease in his brow illuminated by the blue moon, before continuing to sort out the guns and rock salt and whatever else. “Didn’t hear any other suggestions... I think it’s the best idea we’ve got, cover more ground that way. Besides, kid’s gotta learn somehow, consider it a teachable moment.” 

Cas rolls his eyes at Dean’s clipped tone. “Fine,” he grits out dismissively, “Do you at least remember the words to the incantation?”

“Something like ‘Abracadabra Kalamazoo’ or whatever the hell.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas urges.

Dean forcefully tosses a double barrel at his chest, despite the fact he’s the only one packing supernatural heat. “Yeah, Cas, I got it.” He beckons Sam and Jack over to the trunk and distributes the weapons between them, making sure to explain to Jack when and how to use them.

Assuming they’re all prepared for worst case scenarios, they split up, each pair heading to opposite entrances of the building. They’re bound to meet in the middle if there’s really nothing here. Unless of course, they meet up with the monster first.

Once inside, Sam and Cas search the old production floor that is still filled with box after box of old game boards and game pieces. All of the equipment is in disrepair and they take great care to avoid knocking anything over while they search in and around the conveyer belts and heavy machinery.

Meanwhile, Dean and Jack take the stairs towards the office level. The main hallway is covered in peeling laminate faux-wood panels. “Hit the light,” whispers Dean over his shoulder. Pulling out a small flashlight from his pocket, Jack shines the narrow tunnel of light down the hall, but it’s empty. Nothing except illuminated dust particles floating by, but there’s a shit ton of doors lining either side of the hall. 

They approach the first door on the right because it seems as good a choice as any. With a swift kick to the door jamb, the door swings open and bounces off the wall with a loud thud. “Shit,” mutters Dean under his breath. Aside from the papers strewn across the floor and over the desk top, there’s really nothing out of the ordinary here. Jack walks over to the desk to scramble through the few desk drawers just to be thorough. 

They move on to the next room. More of the same. Papers, cobwebs, dust. They go through two more offices like that. Checking desk drawers and doing quick sweeps. 

When they come to a door halfway down the hall, the only difference is the presence of a filing cabinet in the far corner of the office. None of the room’s so far have had one, so it’s the first place they decide to look, but it’s locked. Digging around in his jacket pocket, Dean fumbles with his lock picking kit. He has Jack angle the light over his shoulder while he tries to get the right sized picks for a filing cabinet lock. When he does, somewhere down on the main floor he can hear Cas shouting to Sam to “get down”, followed closely by a large, metallic clang. Sam yells out, clearly in pain, and there’s more banging, as if someone’s been tossed over the production line.

“Sam!” shouts Dean, as he picks open the lock of the top drawer. He doesn’t get a response. When the drawer slides open on the tracks, there’s a blue, velvet hex bag neatly placed on a stack of disheveled manila envelopes. “Go help ‘em,” barks Dean to Jack, motioning towards the door, “I’ll take care of this.” But Jack is hesitant to leave.

Dean pulls the lighter out of his pocket and flicks it. “Dean, wait--” Holding the flame to the bag, he attempts to recite the Latin incantation they’d found in the bunker library, but instead of destroying the hex, it causes the bag to erupt in a burst of purple light throwing Jack backwards through the thinly constructed office wall. “Dean, no!” shouts Jack between dusty coughs, but Dean is nowhere to be found. He clambers back through the hole in the wall to be sure, but sure enough, Dean’s gone. He can hear the loud booted footsteps ascending the iron stairwell and he knows it’s Sam and Cas by the footfalls.

When Sam appears in the office doorway, Jack can’t even meet his eyes. “It took him,” exclaims Jack slumped on the floor, covered in a mixture of fresh blood and dirt. “I tried to stop him, but I wasn't able to, not without my powers.”

Sam doubles over, panting in harsh, short bursts, as he clutches at his side where he managed to get stuck by a blade. “It's okay, Jack,” he wheezes, fighting away a grimace, “We’ll get him back.” He stumbles over to the cheap, paneled wall of the office and slides down next to Jack, his own blood trickling over his sticky fingers.

It was supposed to be a run of the mill hunt. A milk run. Just something to show Jack the ropes and exercise their muscles as a newfound group, but after poking around downstairs they soon realized they weren't hunting just one thing. 

The shards of glass and plaster strewn across the wet, concrete floor crunch under Cas’ boots as he makes his way down the echoing corridor, blade in hand. Cas had gone for the witch after it had attacked Sam and effectively managing to kill them by tapping into his grace. He checks around a few corners just to be sure the coast is clear. Rounding the corner of the office, he finds Sam and Jack slumped and bloody against the wall, looking a little worse for wear. “Are you alright?” He asks, followed closely with, “What happened? Where’s Dean?”

“He’s gone,” murmurs Jack, still clearly wallowing in his failure. “The hex bag. It cast some sort of spell on him that knocked him unconscious, I think, but then he disappeared. He tried to use the spell we found in the library, but nothing happened. I think maybe he got a word wrong, or, I’m not sure. I should have said it.”

Panic flares in his chest, but Cas keeps a calm resolve for Jack’s sake. “It’s not your fault. We’ll find him,” he assures, but that part is more for himself. Cas crouches down beside him to examine his wounds. Fortunately, the wounds aren’t deep. He heals him with relative ease, before turning to Sam and tending to his wounds as well. Sam’s take longer. Apparently the blade wasn't a normal run of the mill blade either, but it mends itself eventually.

Sam cautiously flexes his joints as a test, like he still can't believe Cas is capable after all this time of fixing things with one touch. The action is so terribly reminiscent of Dean that Cas can’t dwell on the fact they aren't out of the woods yet, so to speak. To Sam, he asks, “What's the plan now?” 

Sam groans rising to his feet, probably closer to 75% than 100%. Good enough. “You already said it, Cas.” He reaches down to pull Jack to his feet, and looks them both squarely in the eye. “We find Dean.”

The three of them nod to each other, willfully ignoring the idea of what condition he might be in when they do. If they can even find him at all.

***

“Yo! I got the pizza,” announces Dean from the doorway, precariously balancing beer on top of two large pizzas, as he closes the bunker door with the heel of his boot. He's wet, but he doesn't remember it raining on the way home. He actually doesn't remember driving home, but he's had so much on his mind lately that's not too surprising.

It's one of those blessed, seldom nights where they don't have a goddamn thing to do and Dean is friggin’ ecstatic. In fact, he can't wait to just change into his frumpy sweatpants, pop in a shitty rom-com, veg out in his La-Z-Boy, and devour his entire pizza. Bonus points if he can convince Cas to join him.

“They didn't have any of that weird crap you wanted, Sam, but I got somethin’ green on it,” he says as he starts down the steps. Dean specifically ordered two pizzas just because of said green crap. After glancing over the rail to the war room, he realizes he's just been talking to himself though.

“Uh, hello?” No response. 

He climbs the few steps into the library which is also apparently empty. Setting down the pizza and beer on one of the research tables, he wanders down the hall mumbling to himself that the pizza is going to get cold and the beer is going to get warm. He pops his head into a few of the obvious rooms, but still nothing. Descending a staircase further into the bunker, he finally hears murmuring coming from somewhere down the hall. Since when did an underground bunker need a basement? He doesn't remember there being a basement either, but he chocks it up to the fact he never explores much outside his room and the kitchen.

“Where the hell are you guys?”

“In here,” calls Sam. The only problem is there's too many damn doors in this place.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, where's here? Gonna need some coordinates.”

The sound of a box falling to the floor comes before he gets a response. “Third door on the left, Dean,” answers Cas.

Following directions, Dean enters the third door on the left. It's a dusty, old store room, just like most of the underused rooms in the bunker. “Thanks, Magellan,” he says, clapping Cas on the shoulder with an added bicep squeeze, just because, but man, Cas feels firm.

Dean inspects the room and comes to the conclusion it's filled with junk. Sam and Jack are squatting on the floor rifling through a cardboard box. Peering over their shoulders, Dean can see this box is unsurprisingly also filled with crap, but Jack is acting like a kid on Christmas morning. “The hell are you guys doin’ in here?”

“We found all this cool stuff!” exclaims Jack, holding up a singular Lincoln Log.

“Right...” Dean isn't impressed.

“We decided it might be a good idea to have a game night… we just were missing the games,” adds Sam, digging around with his head in the box. 

“Sam said he thought there might be some in here, so here we are,” explains Cas. Dean isn't surprised Sam has catalogued this box of crap too. Not in the least.

“Aha!” Sam snakes his arm out of the box clutching a board game. When he blows the dust off the game box, Jack sneezes, but Dean figures it's too on the nose to say bless you to a half angel kid. Cas says it anyway. “Check it out! Looks like we're good to go, guys.”

It’s probably the oldest edition of Scrabble known to mankind. Dean sucks at Scrabble. “Yeah… Not a fan of boardgames, Sammy. Besides, I got a date with a La-Z-Boy, so you kids have fun.” Dean attempts to leave the room, but Cas grabs the shoulder of his jacket. 

“Dean,” he says, tone hushed, “I think it would mean a lot to Jack if we all did something together.” He looks pained. Like he's just saying it because it's the right thing to do. And it might be, but Dean could think of at least two other things he would rather do tonight, both of which uncoincidentally involve Cas, but he doesn't need to know that.

“What, like the Brady Bunch? Sorry, not for me.”

“Dean only hates board games because he’s a sore loser,” replies Sam to Jack. Dean didn't hear the question, but the answer was only half true. It also makes him feel dumb, which isn't something of which he needs to be reminded.

“I can hear you, ya know?”

“Well, it's true. You are,” adds Cas.

“Not helping, man.” Dean stands in the doorway dreaming about his La-Z-Boy, but the call to injustice is a far stronger pull than that of soft leather; just barely. “Fine, I'll play,” he concedes, which earns him a beaming smile from Jack where he's sat on the floor. Holding out a finger, “On one condition.”

Cas is unsurprised, but still has a calculating look on his face. Jack is absolutely oblivious, which is a refreshing change from Cas. Sam just groans. “No, Dean.”

“Yes, Samuel, or I'm out.” Dean and Sam have been in a sort of silent argument, ever since Dean woke up the other day and found Sam had drank the rest of the coffee on him. The one he had just bought last week, no less. He's just annoyed enough to want to bust his balls still.

“Jack is a child! Like you said, we don't need to corrupt him just yet.”

“Oh, please! I think he's already seen worse than a game of scrabble.”

“Technically, I'm only mentally a child. Physically, I'm in my mid-twenties, if that helps,” offers Jack as he gets to his feet, brushing his hands off on his pants. It didn't really help either of their cases, but Dean didn't really care if he won this. He just wanted to watch a damn movie. They stand bickering between each other for a couple minutes. “Are they always like this?” Jack asks leaning into Cas.

“Not always, but I've learned it's best not to get in the middle.”

Jack considers it for a moment, but speaks anyway. “I’d really like Dean to play with us, Sam.”

Dean shoots Sam a contented smirk. “Let's take a vote. All in favor of my idea, raise your hand.” Dean and Jack raise their hands almost immediately, despite Jack not even knowing what he’s agreeing to. Cas stands off to the side looking like he wishes he could fly the hell out of this whole dumb thing. Maybe he wants a movie night too. Sam locks his bitch face in place and turns it on Cas, but Dean ignores him. “What's it gonna be, Cas? My way or the highway?”

Cas looks between them: Dean’s self-satisfied face beaming at him, knowing he’s probably won this whole thing, and Sam’s pissy face knowing Dean knows it too. “I guess I don't see the harm in it. It could be… educational. We can always stop if it gets out of hand.” 

Sam visibly deflates in defeat while Dean is only bolstered by the win. “Ya hear that, Sammy? Three against one. Look at it as a teachable moment.” He yanks the dusty board game out of Sam's hands and heads out the door. “Now haul your asses upstairs before the pizza gets cold!”

Dean isn't going to let this impromptu game night get in the way of all of his plans. With his ratty, old sweatpants loosely in place, he kicks his legs up on the edge of the research table and reaches over for a slice of greasy as hell pizza; just the way he likes it. By accident, he opens the lid to the mystery pizza with the green bits on it. He hasn't got the faintest clue why Sam insists on trying to make even pizza seem healthy. On the other side of the table, Sam makes the same mistake with Dean’s pizza. They both grimace in disgust at each others choices. “Yo, swap with me, Samsquatch.” They slide the boxes to their respective sides of the table. “That one is for you guys to share. This beauty is all mine,” he says, rubbing his hands together before lifting the lid. Meat lover's. The only kind.

“Dean, you can't possibly eat that entire pizza,” says Cas in his best dad voice.

Dean takes half a slice into his mouth without even chewing. “Watch me,” he mumbles out around the hunk of dead cow in his mouth. The three of them stare with a strange mixture of shock, awe, and disgust. “Not literally! We gonna play a game or what?”

Clearing his throat, Sam reaches for the ancient Scrabble box between them and begins laying out the board. He hands out the letter racks and gives Jack a rundown on the basic how-to of playing Scrabble, explaining the colored squares and the letter points and whatever the hell else is involved in playing this game. 

Dean sets down his pizza and wipes his greasy fingers on his worn tee. “Yeah, yeah, you make words, you get points. Everybody got that?” Jack nods enthusiastically and Sam rolls his eyes at being interrupted. Cas gives a small nod as well, knowing full well the rest of the game because Dean's forced him to play more than once on Words with Friends. Dean slides Cas a beer as he opens his own. “Alright, good. Forget Scrabble, the name of this game is Dirty Words. Same basic rules, except you can only make, you guessed it.”

“Oh, I think I know some of those! At least, the ones Dean says,” proclaims Jack, eagerly clinging to the edge of his seat.

“Perfect! You can go first then,” says Dean, taking a swig of his beer.

They all reach into the bag and retrieve their seven lettered tiles, lining them up on their racks. Dean’s got squat. Literally, that's the only word he can make. It'll have to do. He tries to lean over and peek at Cas’ tiles next to him, but Cas knows him well enough to angle his rack away and shield it with his hand.

“Did you know the creator of Scrabble was named Alfred Butts?” offers Sam, scrolling his phone and probably thinking that’s interesting trivia.

“You sure it wasn’t Seymour?” says Dean with a chuckle. Sam just stares at him with dead eyes.

Jack makes the first move, hesitantly placing his tiles down on the faded pink star at the center of the board. He spells the word ‘BOOBS’. Dean laughs into the mouth of his beer bottle. “Atta boy! He takes after me.” Jack beams at the praise. “Sammy, you're up!” Sam sighs, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips as he rearranges his letters. After short consideration, he places his tiles on the board, spelling out ‘BITCH’ off the first ‘B’. He turns the board to Dean and Cas because it's a fancy model that swivels. While Sam jots down the scores, Dean throws down his own tiles. 

“Squats?” Sam asks skeptically over his score sheet.

“Yeah, you know, like pop a squat. It counts.” Dean takes another mouthful of pizza. “Go ahead, Cas” Cas confidently lays his tiles down with a small smirk. Dean sputters around the pizza he half swallowed. ‘COCKS’ Straight to the friggin’ point and it hit a double word square. It’s far too early and inappropriate for his thoughts to head south so quickly, especially considering present company. “I'll be damned, Cas, you're gettin’ good at this game.”

“Thank you, Dean,” he replies, noticeably pleased with himself. When Cas brings his beer to his mouth, Dean can't help but get a little sidetracked by the way his tongue flicks against the lip of the bottle. In his efforts to spite Sam, Dean probably didn't think this through.

It takes a couple rounds of them metaphorically rolling snake eyes and having to exchange letters before someone adds another word. One of the pitfalls of playing this game is that it's a buttload more challenging than regular Scrabble, but at least Dean finds it interesting and can't say he doesn't know any of the words. Thanks, Pornhub. Speaking of butt loads, the next person to throw down is Cas. ‘SEMEN’ on a triple word score. “Son of a bitch.”

“Jeez, Cas, you're already over fifty points,” says Sam, adding it to the scorecard. “We might as well throw in the towel.”

“No, Sam, I'm really enjoying this game,” protests Jack, as he moves his letters around. He manages to get the word ‘NIPPLE’. 

Dean laughs again and taps Cas with the back of his hand. “Think the kid’s got a fixation.” Cas just gives Dean a long-suffering glare, but there's not really any heat to it. Dean definitely doesn't watch Cas worry on his lower lip as he strategizes over the game board.

A few turns go by before Cas whips out one of those godforsaken blank tiles. “It’s a ‘Z’,” he decides, placing it off the other ‘Z’. ‘JI_Z’. JIZZ. Of course, the ‘J’ is on a triple letter.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ! You gotta be kidding me! I swear you two are cheating.” Dean glowers at the angels, their letter racks, the drawstring pouch. Anything. He can't figure out how the hell these two are winning when one of them blushes at porn and the other doesn't even know what porn is. “And I swear to god, Cas, what's with all the cock talk? You got dick on the brain or somethin’?” Dean didn't really mean to say that part out loud, but there it is. He is resolutely not projecting.

Cas rolls his eyes at the affront, unfazed. “I'm just playing the game like you wanted, Dean. I learned it from you. You shouldn't have taught me how to play if you didn't want me to get better at it.”

The only reason Dean had made Cas play this game with him in the past was because it was a surefire way for him to win. Okay, maybe there was another reason too. Namely, just for an excuse to make Cas say dirty words, but who could blame him? His voice is practically made for that and it's not like Cas connected the dots anyway. And yeah, maybe Dean had taught him all the dick-centric words for reasons, but had Dean known Cas was actually taking pointers and improving his game skills in the process, Dean never would have agreed to play this at all. Afterall, Sam was still half right in his assessment. Dean is an enormously sore loser.

“Whatever” is all he says, specifically ignoring the weird look from Sam who's probably wondering when Dean bothered to corrupt Cas with dick words or, more importantly, why. Jack is still oblivious and is focusing on his letters.

Sam puts down the word ‘SEX’, trying desperately to be less vulgar than everyone else in some vain attempt at maintaining the moral high ground. When it's Dean's turn though, he plays the word ‘TAINT’.

“What's ‘taint’?”

To Dean’s surprise, both Cas and Jack ask in unison, coupled with an eerily similar tilt of the head. Sam tells Jack the Merriam-Webster standard definition and luckily, the kid accepts that at face value; it still works with the running theme of the game. Cas isn't buying that though and he seems especially perturbed that Dean used a word that he hasn't learned. “Thought you knew everything,” Dean jibes. He rolls his eyes at Cas’ creased brow, but leans over in his seat and cups a hand by the side of his own mouth anyway. “Ain't the dick, ain't the ass,” whispers Dean, a little too closely. Maybe it's from the beer. Thankfully, Jack’s hearing is something he inherited from his mother. When Dean pulls away, Cas looks as confused as ever.

“Then what is it?”

Dean snorts. “Don't worry about it, man.” But Cas still looks a little worried.

It's Sam's turn again and he finally has a word. ‘VULVA’. Leave it to Sam to keep Dirty Scrabble anatomically correct. It soon occurs to Dean though, that he's losing. He manages to put down ‘CAME’, but it's not enough; he's still in third.

“Why is ‘came’ a dirty word?” Jack looks completely bemused.

Cas blushes and scratches the hairs on the back of his neck and Dean just snorts to himself and fills his face with more pizza. “Um, we’ll tell you when you're older, Jack,” answers Sam, awkwardly. Sam levels Dean with a glare just for making him have to deal with this whole thing in the first place. 

“Any day now, Cas.” 

Cas is rearranging the letters on his rack, a little too slowly for Dean’s liking. He glances over to Dean, annoyed, but once he spots a place on the board that coincides with his letters he’s practically grinning to himself. It’s a good look on him and Dean thinks he should do it more, except right now it means that Cas is going to get even more points and he's already ridiculously in the lead. There's not many letters left in the the bag either, and based on what's on the board it's probably all vowels, which might work in regular scrabble, but not in this demented version. He puts the tiles down just as slowly and Dean has to angle his head to see the board. ‘DILDO’. Triple word. If Dean didn't know any better, he would say that Cas was doing all this on purpose. It’s a distinct possibility as Cas smirks into the mouth of his beer bottle.

“I know that word!” Jack has that dumb, proud look on his face again.

Sam places his pen down and just looks between them and back at Jack. “Um,” he starts, “How do you know that word, Jack?”

Dean scratches his neck, and decides it's a great time to put the food away. “I'm just gonna…” 

“Last week, when we were at the grocery store, Dean said a rude man in the parking lot was a ‘dildo’ for driving in front of us.”

“Dean,” hisses Cas urgently, like he didn't just play the friggin’ word, but when Dean looks over to him he's not even paying attention. Weird.

Dean doesn't get very far. He doesn't get to leave the table actually. Sam’s glaring at him like someone just pissed in his cheerios and that someone was Dean. “What? Dude was,” he says with a shrug, taking a pull from his beer to avoid further justification.

To everyone's relief Cas actually passes a turn, but then that motherfucker Jack swoops in with some bullshit word.

“Zygote,” states Dean. He looks around the table at the others waiting for someone to veto this obscene lack of respect for the rules of Dirty Words, but he's met with none. “Zygote!” Dean repeats it louder for emphasis. “No way, doesn't count!” He might be less annoyed if it weren't on a double word square, but it IS, and Dean can't lose to some kid that doesn't even know all the dirty words.

“I dunno, Dean. I say it counts.” Sam moves the tiles aside to preemptively tally the score. 

“What! How!?”

“Well, Dean, technically a Zygote would be the result of having unprotected sex. I think it counts just as much as ‘Squats’ did.” Cas says it all nonchalant, despite Dean feeling like this is the worst betrayal.

“Castiel is right! I was a Zygote less than a year ago,” asserts Jack, proudly.

“Yeah, buddy, might not wanna go round sayin’ that to people. Still don't think it counts.”

“Whaddya know, Dean. It's three against one!” Sam emphatically scribbles the points down with his pen and casts Dean a cocky grin. The gigantic bastard.

“Fine, I see how it is.” Dean is also resolutely not sulking in his losses.


	2. Chapter 2

They’d attempted to call out for Dean a few times, but after a while they decided that was useless and only served to alert whatever else was in the building of their whereabouts instead of Dean’s. Despite knowing what they know now, they still split up. Sam goes alone and Cas takes Jack with him. The prospect of the mystery monster still being in the factory would be promising if it weren’t so large. And, God, why were there so many doors? Sam kicks down yet another door, aiming his gun in either direction before peering inside yet another empty office in disrepair. Why they chose to hole up here is no longer a mystery. There’s got to be at least ten offices on the top floor alone and he’s found no indication of the monster or Dean.

Jack and Cas took to the basement. No noises to be heard aside from dripping pipes coming from the long forgotten boiler room, but if there’s dripping pipes it means someone is still running water to this place. The witch and whatever else was still living in the factory. The only question is: what were they doing here?

They come across a locked door further down the hall. There’s no detectable noises, but Cas can sense a heat signature coming from the other side of the door. Pointing for Jack to stand by the other side of the door, Cas lowers his head and raises his palm flat to the chipped, painted door. Summoning more of his grace, he manages to blow the door off the rusted hinges, sending splinters across the damp concrete. The stench of mold and decay flood their nostrils. There’s a couple bodies piled under the small window as well as someone strung up in the middle of the room. Fighting back the automatic gag reflex, Jack enters the room first. The only thing on Cas’ mind is that none of them are Dean. Thank God. 

Jack covers his nose and mouth with the collar of his t-shirt before walking towards the bodies by the window. He squats down as close as he can get due to the smell, and pulls the pocket flashlight out of his jeans. “They’re the couple that went missing last week,” he states, words muffled into the fabric.

“Well, whatever the witch was doing, they weren’t doing it alone,” deduces Cas, hesitantly approaching the woman that’s been strung up by her wrists. As he gets close, he realizes that she’s still breathing feathery breaths. “She’s still alive! Help me cut her down!”

Cutting the rope with a pocket knife, she collapses on the floor in a heap, greasy hair falling in her face, but Jack manages to prop her up against a metal folding chair he found in the corner. Cas attempts to heal her, but whatever spell or curse she’s under prevents him from being able to wake her up. Jack speaks the incantation they found in the bunker library to no avail. She’s out cold. 

“Is there anything else we can do?”

“There’s one thing I can try, but I hate to do it. It’s a gross invasion of privacy on my part, and wholly unpleasant to be on the receiving end of it.” It seems to be the only option though after a few useless attempts to revive her. Reluctantly, Castiel shrugs a few of his layers off for better efficiency. Placing the palms of his hands against the woman’s temples, he concentrates on picking up the low frequency being emitted from her brain activity. Once he catches a wave, he’s almost transported into the woman’s subconsciousness. His mind is at least. His body is still very much sat kneeling beside her unconscious body with eyes blank and glowing blue while Jack looks on helplessly.

“Cas?... Jack?” Sam whisper shouts from somewhere in the hall.

“We’re at the end of the hall,” replies Jack. When Sam sees the sight of Cas he stops in the doorway. “He’s attempting to wake her up by entering her thoughts. We tried everything else we could think of,” explains Jack. Sam nods his acknowledgment and edges his way into the room, grimacing at the smell of decomposition surrounding them. “We found the missing couple,” adds Jack, gesturing towards the window on the other side of the room. 

Sam purses his lips together at the sight, forcibly not thinking about the fact they still haven’t found Dean. “That’s... great, Jack. Good job.”

After a few minutes, Cas drops his hands, falling back on his knees. His eyes lose their angelic glow and the woman sits up gasping for breath. Her breathing comes out in dry rasps; she probably hasn’t had water in days. She eventually registers the fact that she’s surrounded by what appears to be three grown men and the corpses of two other individuals and she flails in an attempt to get to her feet, but she hasn’t walked in days so she falls back again.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” assures Cas.

“You-- you were in my dream,” says the woman, clearly perturbed. “How are you here? How is that possible? Where am I?”

Sam edges closer to the woman, not wanting to spook her any more than she already is. “My name is Sam and we came to save you, we’re here to help, but we also need your help too.”

She stares at Sam, not believing a word he’s saying. The woman looks to Cas again for an explanation to his existence outside of her mind. 

“This is difficult to explain, but I... entered your mind to revive you. You weren’t asleep, rather you were placed under a type of spell or curse. You were in a deeper state of unconsciousness, where the regular means to wake you failed. I came to retrieve you from your mind, but I need to know what you saw while you were unconscious. It’s very important. Whatever did this to you, has our friend now too and we need to find him as quickly as possible. Do you remember anything else?”

What Cas had seen wasn’t enough to go on. She was in a field of flowers with a warm spring breeze blowing through the grass. There was a picnic and a nude man was splashing in a pond fifty yards away. It was simple, relaxing, but it told him nothing about why she was there or what could possibly be happening to Dean.

“I, um, I’m not sure. I remember the field… I was having a picnic with my husband at our summer home. I don’t know why. There aren’t any flowers there, I haven’t been there in years and my husband… my husband has been dead for quite some time now. It felt like we were only there for the afternoon. How long have I been down here?”

“Your husband, did he say anything to you?” asks Sam over Cas’ shoulder.

She closes her eyes, trying to recall the sequence of events. “We didn’t speak much, I- I can’t say.” She seems embarrassed almost.

Cas tosses Sam and Jack a look trying to convey exactly why that would be. Sam nods, though Jack doesn’t pick up on it. Fortunately, he doesn’t press her on the subject.

“I think what we’re dealing with is some sort of djinn...” says Sam, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He scrolls through his notes that he took while they spoke with the sheriff’s station.

“But there was the witch… you killed them, didn’t you?” asks Jack, confused.

“There’s a curse that can bind a demon or an entity to the witch that casts it. In this case, our witch managed to bind a djinn to do their work for them. To syphon off people’s aura or what, I don’t know, but it’s the only explanation for those two,” he points to the bodies by the far wall, “and the things she is explaining right now. It was showing her the things she wanted most to keep her complacent and to keep her alive long enough for whatever plans the witch had for them.”

Jack mulls it over, “That makes sense. Though, in killing the witch, that would break the curse that has the djinn bound, wouldn’t it? What would be stopping it?”

Sam and Cas share a worried look of realization. “Exactly,”growls Cas, getting to his feet. “We need to keep searching.” He rolls his coat sleeves back down, and picks his blade and the gun back up off the ground. “Jack, I think it would be wise for you to bring this woman to the car while we search.” It’s not a question, it’s an order. 

Jack complies. Stepping forward to help drape the woman’s arm across his shoulders, he walks the two of them out the basement door and towards where the Impala is parked. Luckily, Dean hadn’t locked the car.

The other two make their way into the hall as well just to escape the pervading stench. “We’re running out of time,” Cas tells Sam, noticeably frustrated. “She obviously doesn’t know how she got here, so there may not even be a link between the hexbag and this location.”

“But if all of the missing victims were in the factory, where else would the witch have wanted to send the next one?”

“That may be true, but Dean’s obviously not in here, you’ve already searched the rest of the offices and there’s not many rooms left. Where do you propose we look? And if it is a djinn, like you suspect, how am I going to kill it? We don’t have any lambs blood.”

“A blow to the head should work. It’s worked before,” Sam says, pointing to the gun Cas almost forgot he’d been carrying this whole time. “Just imagine yourself bringing the gun, I guess?”

“And the rest of the problem?”

Pacing a short circle, Sam ponders the question for a moment. The factory is silent other than Sam’s own breathing and the persistent dripping from the water pipe running along the ceiling. Sam’s eyes track the length of the pipe, moving down the side of the wall where it disappears through the plaster behind the door labelled, ‘BOILER ROOM’. He catches Cas’ eyes again and returns his gaze to the door. “Huh... did you guys check in there?”

“In the boiler room? Yes, of course, but it was empty aside from the boiler and the water tank and some old, copper piping. Why? You don’t think…” Cas trails off, furrowing his brows.

“Well, it’s the only place we haven’t looked yet,” shrugs Sam.

***

Dean ends up holing himself up in his room after raiding the contents of the fridge for more beer. This kind of thing is the exact reason why he hates board games. He lost and ended up leaving the table feeling like the world’s biggest loser, regardless of how he got there. It's not sulking, but it's pretty close. 

Regardless, Dean is sitting against his headboard, hand lazily palming over his dick, as he scrolls through the proffered suggestions on his eclectic porn account. His eyes are a bit blurry, but who would he be if he didn't rub one out before bed? Just because he lost the game doesn't mean the effects of Dirty Words were lost on him. Especially when Cas made it his sole mission to only play dick words and to wet his lips every other second. He's just about to select a video of some poorly-scripted, sloppy blow job, when there's a slight rapping at his bedroom door. Dean scrambles to remove his hand from the front of his tented sweats and hurriedly closes the laptop. “Yeah?” he asks, but it comes out cracked.

It's close to midnight so there's really only one person it could actually be, who actually isn’t even a person at all really. The door pushes open silently on its hinges, but Cas is rooted in the doorway like he needs a personal, engraved invitation. Maybe he does, given the odd timing. “Hello, Dean,” he rasps. He's not wearing his trench coat and damn he really does look like he's been working out. Do angels need to work out?

“Uh, hey, Cas. What’s up, buddy?” He tries to sound light, casual even, but it really just sounds forced. He adjusts a pillow over his lap to obscure his bulge.

As he gently closes the door behind him, Cas meanders further into the room, stealing glances around the space like he's never been there before. Dean’s eyes flit between the closed door and Cas, hovering between the two, but Cas cocks his head and looks Dean dead in the eyes. “I'm sorry for interrupting,” he starts, nodding minutely towards the pillow precariously placed on Dean’s lap, “I just didn’t want you to feel too badly about losing the game and I -- I looked up the word ‘taint’, but I'm still having a hard time understanding. I was hoping you could show me?” That damn open expression spreads over his face It shouldn't be hot. Cas is just asking for help, right? But it is, and something just below the surface is telling Dean that despite how he may appear, Cas knows exactly what he's doing.

Dean gulps as Cas inches closer to the edge of his mattress. “Show you?” he croaks. “Show you, how?”

Cas stares down at him on the bed, eyebrow raised ever so slightly, with the hint of a smirk. And man, that can really do things to a guy like Dean. “I think you know how.”

Dean looks around like any moment now Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out from under the bed or something. This can't be real life. More importantly, this can't be Cas. Cas doesn't know how to be sexy -- not on purpose. And god, Dean’s wanted this exact thing for longer than he could admit to himself, but just maybe it feels like they're skipping a few crucial steps? Cas strips his tie out from his collar in one long pull and his hands move for the buttons of his shirt, deftly going through the row, before shrugging it off where it lands on the concrete next to his feet. 

Since when is Cas barefoot? That train of thought doesn't even make it to the station. Dean can almost hear the gears in his brain screeching to a halt. Smooth, tanned muscles. That's all he can afford to care about right now, that is, until Cas sinks a knee down onto the mattress. The memory foam is bound to remember this.

“What, uh, what are you doin’, Cas?”

Cas slinks up the bed, arms trapping Dean in on either side. Dean sinks a little further into the pillow, but who could blame him? Cas is kind of terrifying when he takes control, in the hottest way possible. He's hovering over Dean, blue eyes dark with want and staring at his mouth like he wants to devour him. Dean is unequivocally on board. “Don't ask stupid questions,” Cas orders, before crushing their lips together.

Dean almost forgets to move, but once his brain catches up he's running his hands over any and all available skin, fully appreciating just how muscular Cas’ body really is under all those layers. Abandoning Dean’s lips, Cas ghosts a hot breath across Dean’s stubbled jaw and pins Dean’s wrists above his head with one strong hand. Tugging fingers snake through the short hairs on the top of his head to expose his neck as he works his mouth along Dean’s pulse point.

“Fuck,” pants Dean, “This has gotta be a dream.”

Cas pauses to lave his tongue over a newly forming mark. “It's not a dream,” he murmurs between sucks, “You're not asleep.” Inching lower, he bites down on Dean’s nipple, raking his teeth over the sensitive bud, before soothing that too with his tongue. “And things can't hurt you in dreams.” 

And he's right, it hurts, but in the best way possible. “Keep goin',” mumbles Dean, pushing at Cas’ shoulders as a not so subtle suggestion. Cas makes hot trails of kisses, pausing to mouth at the area just under Dean’s navel. His tongue peeks out to taste the salty sweat forming on Dean’s skin before he inches even lower, teasing along the top of Dean’s sweatpants. When he pulls them down lower, Dean’s erection bobs out against his stomach, practically aching for attention. Cas ghosts another heated breath over Dean’s leaking cock before leaning in to suck the crease of his thigh. 

“C’mon, Cas,” whines Dean, bucking his hips off the bed.

“Dean.” It’s faintly muffled, just enough to spur Dean into rocking his hips a little faster for attention. Cas growls into his skin.

“Dean!” He hears it again closer, louder, and looks down to meet the pair of baby blues in his lap, but something isn’t right about them the longer he looks.

Cas is just about to work his mouth over Dean’s taint when he hears “Dean!” a third time; now he knows it isn’t coming from the Cas in his lap. If this thing can even be considered Cas. What’s left staring back at him is deformed and covered in black markings and the ugliest mother Dean’s ever seen in his life. And he’s honestly never even seen whatever the fuck this is before now that he thinks of it. As soon as the thought registers, his bedroom door is being blasted through with angelic force. The creature sits stock straight in his lap preparing itself for a fight, but within seconds Cas is leveling the double barrel at the creature’s head, blasting bits of brain and ooze onto the concrete behind it.

“ _Dean_ ,” he utters, full of worry and relief as he rushes over to the bed, but as soon as he does the full image of Dean splayed out before him processes and he stops in his tracks. Awkwardly, he turns away to allow Dean to replace his pants and wills the heat to leave his cheeks as he clears his throat. “I’m, um, I’m here to revive you, Dean. We found you, but the only way you can come out of this is to bring yourself out. This is your mind, so you have to take control of it and get us out.”

Dean’s confused beyond belief as to what just happened, but he knows this is the real Cas now. Namely because this Cas is embarrassed as all hell, has all his layers on, and didn’t forget his shoes in the matrix. Maybe Cas has no idea, what’s going on. Hazarding a glance towards his friend, he follows Cas’ line of vision to the blue tie and the white button-up strewn at the foot of the bed that are identical to the ones the actual, dreamwalking Cas is sporting. Cas rubs the back of his neck and looks away.

Dean awkwardly clears his throat too. “Yeah, sure thing, buddy. Just gimme a sec...”

***

Cas removes his hands from Dean’s soaked hair and snaps back into reality. Somehow, the pink blush on his cheek transcended dimensions and followed him back into the waking world. In his lap, Dean comes to, sputtering and gasping for breath. He’s completely drenched from head to toe, but luckily the water tank wasn’t filled to the brim. Flailing out of Cas’ lap, he scrambles to his knees and hacks up what feels like a lungful of stale water.

“What was that? What the fuck just happened?” gasps Dean on his hands and knees, interspersed through wet coughs.

“Cas saved your ass,” supplies Sam, standing by an all-too-pink Cas. He’s covered in grime. They both are actually.

“Where the fuck am I? How long was I out for?” 

“Only a couple hours. We found you in the water tank after your attempt to destroy the hex bag backfired.” He starts to gather their supplies in his duffle as Dean processes the information.

“Well, shit, I guess.” Dean maneuvers himself to land on his ass. “Where’s the kid?”

“He’s waiting in the car with one of the victims, we found her alive.” Sam walks over and offers a hand down to Dean, pulling him up to his feet. Clapping Dean on the shoulder, Sam adds, “We were really worried about you, you know? Your plan was stupid.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, figures, well here I am safe and sound,” he says sarcastically, arms splayed wide. Dean starts by trying to shed his wet layers off only to catch a glimpse of Cas. He chooses to keep them on until they get to the motel instead. “Hey, can we, uh, get me a change of clothes? And maybe get the hell outta dodge? I feel like I need to bathe in a bucket of Purell and maybe drink a bucket of it too.”

Sam’s lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile, but they never quite make it there. “Sure, Dean.” Sam offers Dean a shoulder to lean on, but Dean waves it off. They walk out the basement exit, Cas quitely following behind. 

As soon as they reach the car, Jack is climbing out of the backseat and lunging for Dean to wrap him in a really awkward, really tight hug, effectively pressing all the air out of his lungs with an “Oof”. Dean wouldn’t admit it, but it feels pretty good right about now. “Dean, I’m sorry I failed.”

“Hey, buddy, we’re all good. This one’s on me. Hazards of the job or whatever.” Jack nods into his shoulder and it’s nice.

Jack turns to the woman in the backseat again. “This is Wendy,” he says in way of greeting. “She’s a very nice lady and she knows how to knit sweaters. I would like to learn how to knit too. Can we learn?”

“Yeah, sure, Jack. No problem,” says Sam, opening the passenger side door for Dean.

“Hey, the hell you think you’re doin’?” protests Dean.

Snaking a hand into Dean’s jacket pocket, Sam jingles the keys in front of his face. “Driving,” he says, matter-of-factly. Sam climbs into the driver side as Cas squeezes into the backseat with Jack and Wendy. He asks Wendy her address and fortunately it’s close by. 

“I’m sorry, but shouldn’t I go to the hospital?” 

Sam glances to her in the rearview and she looks concerned. “In our experience, it’s best not to talk about this sort of thing, but if you want we can bring you there.”

She thinks it over and flexes her joints and whatever else. Cas had already healed her wounds in the basement, so the hospital only served as a surefire way to get carted off to the insane asylum. “No, I suppose I don’t need to.” Sam nods.

Jack and Wendy spend the ride to Wendy’s house discussing the inane differences between knitting and purling. They should just call it reverse knitting for god's sake. It doesn’t escape Dean’s attention that Cas has been radio silent the entire way to Wendy’s either. Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t driving too. Otherwise, he’d probably be getting lost puppy eyes in the rearview the whole way back to the motel room. 

Within minutes of Wendy stepping out of the car, Sam starts in on some questions. First of which being, “What did you see when you were out?” And boy, Dean’s really glad he isn’t driving. He gulps, probably audible only to Cas and his supersonic sense of hearing, but he would place money on the idea that Cas is probably gulping too. “Uh, I don’t remember all of it,” Dean lies, “But I remember we were playing Dirty Words in the bunker.” Well, it’s not technically a lie.

“I hate that game,” dismisses Sam.

"Yeah, cuz you suck at it."

“But was it a djinn? We were working off the assumption that it was.”

Dean furrows his brow and tries to remember what the ugly fucker looked like. It had looked human enough, though all the best monsters do. That is, until Cas blew its brains out. That was actually kind of hot. Dean doesn’t let his mind go down that path, but he knows he’s never seen whatever that thing was before. “Not a djinn,” he affirms, “I don’t think… Actually, have no clue what it was. Never seen it before in my life. It was an ugly son of bitch though, once it showed itself. Horny as hell too.” Dean cringes at the thought.

“Cas, did you see anything?” asks Sam, looking to him for a better answer.

“What?” Cas snaps out of wherever he went. “Um, no, I’m afraid I didn’t get a good look at it before I shot it.”

“Wendy had said it presented itself to her as her late husband,” adds Jack from the backseat. “Who did it come to you as?”

“Uh, I dunno, you know, there was all of us in the bunker, things got a little fuzzy” he says, blowing off the question. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I’m beat.” Sam looks concerned at this new revelation, but that ends the inquisition for the time being. They pull on the highway and pass a few exits until the one for the motel comes up. Sam takes it and in no time they’re pulling up outside the rundown motel.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, getting two rooms seemed like a great idea at the time. Dean had wanted his own room simply because of the argument they’d had about Jack and the fact Dean’s a petty bitch sometimes. In hindsight now, it was the worst thing he probably could have done. Hindsight is always 20/20.

Sam parks the Impala in the center parking space between their two rooms at the “Pink Flamingo”. The only rooms available when they checked in this afternoon were on opposite sides of the motel strip, so the middle just makes the most sense. They all reach for their respective door handles at the same time. All taking great relief in the fact they can shower and lay their sorry asses down on actual beds that are only a mere fifty feet away in either direction. Well, everyone except Cas because Cas doesn’t need to sleep. It was just understood that he would be ‘bunking’ with Sam and Jack, as per the arrangement at check in. 

Once again, Sam offers to help Dean out of the passenger side and once again, Dean brushes him off with a gruff, “I got it.” Dean holds his empty palms open to Sam and Sam gently tosses over the keys across the hood of the car. Catching them just by the tips of his fingers, Dean starts his way towards his motel room, walking with a weird, limping gate to avoid his damp jeans from rubbing all the wrong places. He desperately wants to suffocate himself with a hot shower and change into a clean and, more importantly dry, set of clothes, but as it turns out, Sam has something else to say. Of course he does.

“Dean, wait,” calls Sam, still conspiring with Jack and Cas by the Impala.

Dean stops mid stride, but doesn’t have the full energy to turn his body to face the three of them. “Yeah, what?” he asks over his shoulder. It better be the most groundbreaking piece of conversation anyone’s ever had if it’s coming between him and washing the mental image of half naked Monster!Cas out of his brain. That right there, the mere thought of it, produces far too many conflicting emotions for Dean’s liking right about now.

“Are you sure you want to sleep alone tonight? Maybe it might be best if Cas stays with you, just to make sure you’re safe?”

“Am I ever friggin’ sure,” Dean murmurs. He can only imagine the look of pure, unadulterated mortification spreading across Cas’ face right now. And Dean could understand the feeling. Dean is feeling it too. “I think I’ll be all set, Sammy, I’m a big boy,” he calls back with a half wave, and then he just keeps on walking. 

Sam has that confused look on his face as he watches Dean walk away, brows creasing ever so slightly out of concern, but what else could he do besides ask? No one can force Dean to do anything that Dean doesn’t want to do and Dean is a big boy, despite getting himself in some dumb situations. He’ll come around when he’s ready… hopefully. 

Sam, Jack, and Cas all show themselves into room 3. The tacky diamond wallpaper is peeling by the lightswitch as Sam flips it on. If everything was yellowed in the daylight, one can only imagine how it looks by lamp light. Once they’ve all had a moment to collect themselves, Sam tells Jack it would be best if he took the first shower. He needs more rest then Sam because he’s still growing. Maybe. Depending on how that whole thing works. Jack accepts the reasoning at face value, gathers a change of clothes out of his duffle, and closes the bathroom door behind him.

With a long huff, Sam sits down at the desk against the far wall. He pulls out his cellphone and scrolls his recent contacts for the local sheriff’s office before hitting the ‘call’ button. The sheriff doesn’t answer, only her secretary, so Sam leaves them a tip off about the bodies found in the basement of the factory. A few nods and hums. Some thank yous. Once that’s taken care of, Sam hangs up, elbows on his knees, and scrubs his hands over his eyes. He needs some more answers because nothing about this case is making sense yet, despite the fact it’s technically solved.

Sam turns his sights on Cas who is now sitting precariously on the end of one of the full size beds, hands clasped together. Not quite in prayer, but more like an overly proper house guest. “Are you sure you didn’t see anything? I mean, I get it. It’s Dean’s head, privacy is important. Besides, I probably wouldn’t want to see half the stuff that goes on in there…” Sam trails off with a disgruntled shake of his head, but comes to again, “But I don’t know, just, are you sure you didn’t see anything? If neither of you have ever seen it before then what the hell could it be?”

Cas flickers his eyes between Sam’s and the closed bathroom door. The only sound in the room is the muffled stream of water on the other side of it. But he can’t tell Sam what he saw. He feels like a pinned insect put on the spot, but had he actually even seen it? He can’t really remember what the creature had looked like prior to shooting it. He remembers what it’s brain looked like splashed across the imaginary wall of Dean’s bedroom. Thick and Red. Chunky. He remembers that it had been wearing his exact cut and style of tasteful suit pants. Black with a pressed crease. The leather belt, the blue tie, the white shirt on the floor. These are the concrete details that keep kicking him into silence. Most prominently, he remembers the fact that it was on top of Dean. An absolutely half-naked Dean. And even more prominent still: That Dean had wanted it. Wanted him. Well, the mystery monster version at least. But Dean hadn’t known it was a monster until Cas himself came barging through the door. What would have happened if Cas hadn’t been able to get through? What the hell was that thing?

Cas snaps out of his train of thought before it consumes him and swallows dryly. His lips fall open, searching for an answer to Sam’s question. One that can help. One that isn’t an apology or a dismissal. But he isn’t thinking of anything particularly useful, not unless Sam is curious about the dark freckle Dean has on his inner thigh. “I’m sorry, Sam,” is all he can say. “If I think of anything of import I won’t hesitate to share, but otherwise, most of what I saw I don’t believe Dean would be comfortable with my sharing. It’s not my place.” Cas purposely leaves out his place in the entire ordeal.

Sam gives him a slow nod. A look of understanding mixed with the undercurrent of disappointment. It may as well be radiating off of him, but at least he tries to hide it. He clears his throat. “I know Dean said he would be alright tonight, but I also think he lies about everything. It’s probably better if you watch over him, just in case of.. I don’t even know I guess. Just in case,” Sam sighs. And despite the nervous jolt of energy coursing through him and the bottom of his stomach falling to the floor, Cas agrees.

***

Back in Dean’s room he can hardly contain the sheer excitement rushing through him just to take a goddamn shower. Not even one of the good ones where you take your time, and have a little bit of fun. Just a no nonsense, straight to the point, honest to god shower. For a motel named after a stupid, pink bird, this place had better have good water pressure. 

He just finished stripping off all the layers of damp, heavy fabric, tossing them in a wet heap on the yellowed bathroom linoleum, when a light rapping rattles his motel room door. Dean’s not dumb, either; he knows it’s going to be Cas on the other side of that door. He can sense it. Not in the same way that Cas can, but in a human way. Because who else would be knocking on his door at the most inopportune time? And who else would be making Dean’s stomach do flip flops at this hour? 

Wrapping a rough motel towel securely around his waist, Dean goes to the door and places one hand on the knob. He's not taking any chances though, so he grabs his pistol with the other as precaution. Taking a peek through the peephole, he knows it's his Cas, but he's staying far away from that kind of thinking. The dude is practically sweating through all 47 of his layers and doing that thing where he rubs the back of his neck too much. He looks like an awkward kid picking up his date for the prom. He looks the same as he did after he emerged guns blazing in Dean’s subconscious and isn't that just adorable. If Dean weren't freaking out internally as much as Cas is externally, he'd be laughing. 

With a calming exhale, he lays the pistol down again, slides the chain off the track, and opens the door halfway. The motion catches Cas off guard and he awkwardly turns back toward the door only to find Dean in nothing, but a towel. “Um, hello, Dean,” he greets with a forced swallow, deliberately looking over Dean’s shoulder and fidgeting with the tassel of his trench coat. 

“Hey, Cas…” Dean rests a hand against the door frame and stares at Cas staring at his dress shoes, willing him to get on with it. He tries his best to avoid direct eye contact as well. 

“Sam, he um... Sam wanted me to come check up on you, and possibly watch over you tonight. If you don't mind, of course.”

“Thought I told you I don't need a babysitter.”

“He’s just worried. We all were… Myself especially.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm fine, Cas. Have a good night--” Dean starts to close the door, but Cas slaps an open palm against itit to prevent Dean from shutting him out.

“Dean, wait,” he says, pushing the door back open, far too easily. Dean does as he's told, though, and stops a few feet from where he started. He doesn't say anything, just turns his head back to look at Cas standing in the doorway, waiting on the other side of the threshold just like he’s waiting for that same friggin’ invitation. “May I come in? Please?”

Dean chews his lower lip as he watches Cas fidget on the doorstep. He’d feel like an even bigger dick if he turned Cas away, and he already feels like one all the time as it is.He releases it with another exhale. “Yeah, okay, sure. Knock yourself out.” 

Hesitantly, Cas enters the room and closes the door behind him. His whole demeanor is different now than the overly confident, dominant Cas that Dean’s subconscious had dreamed up, but the similarities between that scenario and what's happening right now are too close for comfort. The deja vu hits Dean like a ton of bricks, or like he swallowed a bag of butterflies. Cas turns from the door to meet his eyes for what feels like first time tonight, and Dean’s mouth goes dry. Wordlessly, Dean hooks a thumb towards the bathroom. “I'm just gonna--,” he stutters out.

“Of course,” says Cas like he always does, “I’ll just wait here.” 

Cas removes his trench coat and lays it on the back of the padded armchair in the corner, but that's all Dean sees before he's slamming the bathroom door behind him. Cas has taken to removing a few layers when he's relaxing at the bunker lately and Dean noticed, of course, Cas has a great bod, but it never really phased him as much as right this moment. Not until Dean realized exactly what is hiding underneath the layers. Sagging against the bathroom door, Dean rests his head with a soft thump, squeezing his eyes shut to block out an oncoming image. 

With another sigh, Dean gets in the shower. He scrubs at the sensitive skin around his nipples, the tender area near his dick, making sure to wash just about everywhere that ungodly monster touched him in his mind, despite knowing it was just that. It didn’t really happen. He scrubs at his scalp anyway in hopes that the soap will reach through and wash his brain clean. He knows he can’t stay in there forever, but he decidedly milks it for as long as possible. Till the hot water turns luke warm and the pads of his fingers look like prunes. 

When he shuts the water off, the only sound is the low murmur of the television in the bedroom as Cas flips through the channels. It suddenly occurs to Dean as he steps out of the shower that in his haste to escape Cas’ vulnerable staring contest, he forgot a dry change of clothes in his duffle. He slings a towel around his waist, but his hand hovers over the doorknob. Dean can do this. He’s looked at Cas a million times before. Right now shouldn’t be any different other than the fact that it’s completely different because now Cas has seen Dean hard and leaking and knows exactly for whom the friggin’ bell tolls. He pushes the thought down and opens the door anyway.

Cas absently turns his head at the intrusion, but his breathing hitches in his throat when he sees Dean step into the bedroom. There’s steam rising off his wet skin. Tiny rivulets of water tracking down his abdomen and soaking into the towel wrapped around his waist. Once Dean acknowledges that Cas is staring, Dean’s face flushes a shade darker and the color spreads down his neck, all the way out to the tips of his ears. He moves over to his duffle bag unzipped on the bed and clears his throat. 

“Forgot a change of clothes,” he explains, rummaging through the bag. 

“Of course,” Cas remembers to say and averts his eyes to the stained carpet. 

A few moments later, Dean pulls a handful of dry sleep clothes out of the bag and holds them up as if to justify the fact he came out wet and naked at all. Turning his back to Cas, he goes for the bathroom again, but Cas stops him this time. “Wait, Dean.” Dean stops in his tracks just by the sound of the command coming out in Cas’ rich gravel voice. “Come here,” he orders, and Dean can’t find it in him to disobey. He turns and Cas rises from the chair. They meet in the middle, but Cas’ eyes are roving over his skin the whole way. He stops in front of Dean and in this one moment, Dean’s never felt more exposed in his life. They’re only two feet apart, the air between them thick with steam and heat and unsaid words, when Cas absently raises his hand. It hovers over Dean’s left pec before he catches himself, he looks up to Dean through his lashes, but it’s not done on purpose. Cas is never sexy on purpose, Dean reminds himself as his throat clicks. No, it’s because he’s focusing his attention on a bite mark above Dean’s nipple. It didn’t break the skin, but it left a distinct bruise. 

“You’re hurt,” states Cas, as clinically as possible, despite his warm breath caressing Dean’s naked skin at such close proximity. 

Desperate to cut the tension in the air, Dean attempts a joke. “Yeah, you should see the other guy.” It’s the wrong way to go and the nervous energy Cas was giving off in waves before slinks it’s way back in.

Cas swallows. “May I heal you now?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Go ahead.” Dean closes his eyes, as he is apt to do, but it’s also because he doesn’t want to notice the soft way Cas looks over his body. Deciding not to cross any further boundaries, Cas lays two fingers to Dean’s forehead and within seconds the marks on Dean’s skin and whatever invisible ailments Dean could have had are cured. Dean tries to lie to himself, but he can’t. He’d hoped Cas would have tried a more hands on approach. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he says with a curt smile, before taking his clothes into the bathroom with him. Cas returns to the chair in the corner feeling a few degrees warmer. He loosens his tie and undoes the top three buttons to his dress shirt as he sinks back against the chair cushions. 

It only takes Dean a couple minutes to pull his clothes on and brush his teeth before he returns to the bedroom. Dean notices the undone buttons even if he doesn’t show it. He starts prepping the bed in a way that makes Cas feel like he’s ignoring the fact he’s in the room too, but Cas doesn’t want this night to end without broaching the matter at hand. “Dean, I think we should discuss what happened.” He figures opening the conversation directly is better than dealing in inferences.

And just like that Dean can feel the bricks stacking themselves back up again. An almost impenetrable wall of defense. “Nothin’ to talk about, Cas. Just a case. I messed up and I paid for it, but them’s the breaks, ya know?” It rolls off his tongue like he had practiced this all night. It wasn’t all night, but he did practice it the whole time he was in the shower. He knew Cas would try to talk about it because he always wants to talk about things. And if he was honest he couldn’t blame the guy either. It’s not every day you see something like that, especially when you’re Cas, but Dean isn’t the type to want to kiss and tell. Even if it’s with a monster that happened to be identical to Cas in almost every way. “If you wanted to say ‘I told you so’ about that spell though, I totally get it. But hey, thanks for savin' my ass. I mean it. I can be pretty thick-headed sometimes.” With a slow nod, Cas’ mouth sets into a thin line as Dean climbs under the covers. “I’m pretty beat, but if I remember anything we can talk about it with Sam tomorrow. Yeah?” 

Cas’ nervous energy is replaced by a few flitting emotions, but the most prominent one, the one that sticks at the end, is resignation. “I understand,” he says, despite not wanting to let this go so easily. But regardless of how Cas feels, Dean has had a taxing night and deserves to sleep. “Goodnight, Dean. I’ll be here if you need me.” 

“Night, Cas,” Dean mumbles into his pillow. 

But Dean doesn’t really sleep, not completely, and Cas can sense that sort of thing just as keenly as he can sense when somebody is lying.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean could say he got a good night sleep, but he would be lying. He’d laid there most of the night facing the opposite wall, eyes straining in the dark, feeling Cas staring at the back of his head, while he watched the lamp post flicker shadows through the broken blinds. 

So when the safety of the night is all too soon replaced by the first glow of the morning sun, Dean doesn’t even have to adjust his eyes really. He feigns a stretch and a yawn for nobody’s benefit, but his own, and then he heaves himself up to slump over the edge of the bed, rubbing away nothing in particular from the corners of his bloodshot eyes.

“Good morning, Dean. Did you sleep well?” purrs Cas from the armchair in the corner.

A low groan threatens to rolls out of his throat, but Dean reigns it in. That son of a bitch knows full well he hardly slept for more than ten minute intervals if the alarm clock at the Pink Flamingo is to be believed. Which, you never really know with these places.

“Like a baby,” Dean replies with as much enthusiasm as his sleep deprived, sore body can muster. He clearly isn’t above a good, old-fashioned white lie. 

According to the clock, it’s 7:03AM. Dean’s not really surprised that Sam hasn’t come knocking yet, only because they didn’t get in until late last night, but it’s not like he can pretend to just go back to sleep either. He wasn’t asleep in the first place. And Cas knows that, which is why when Dean tosses him a cursory glance over his shoulder, he’s giving Dean that look. You know, the one where he’s resting his chin on his thumb, one finger pressing into his cheek, with an expectant eyebrow lifted in the air. That look. But Dean hopes Cas knows him enough not to press yet, so he thanks whatever absent god is listening up there for the present silence. Cas can sniff out whatever lies he wants, as long as he doesn’t call Dean on them before he’s at least had his morning coffee.

He pushes himself off the lumpy mattress and squats down next to the bed to search around for whatever clean clothes he might have left in his duffle. A wrinkled tshirt and some worse for wear jeans would have to cut it; the rest of the clothes smelled like ass. Removing his sleep shirt, he tugs the wrinkled one over his head, further disheveling the spikes of hair sticking up from smothering himself in the pillow. He runs his fingers through it to fluff it up a little bit on the flattened side before turning fully to face Cas for the day.

Cas looks… like something crawled up his ass and died there actually, but his attention is purposely directed at the early morning news broadcast instead of at Dean. Something about the case. The sheriff getting Sam’s tip off about the bodies. Some badly delivered one liner in poor taste by the douchey news anchor man. It's hard to hear through the occasional bouts of static, but it sounds like their work here is done at least. 

Once Dean’s jeans are tugged up over his ass, Cas spares him another look. “Are you ready to talk now, Dean?” He's decidedly more annoyed and less nervous than a few hours ago. Dean suspects his blatantly feigned attempt at sleep might have something to do with that.

“Uh…” 

Cas’ gaze is sharp and Dean’s hesitant to hold it for too long out of fear. Just as Dean is about to dribble out some poorly manufactured excuse, there's a solid knock on the motel room door that can only be interpreted as none other than Sam. Dean releases his held breath in a long, drawn out exhale and ducks his chin to excuse himself out from under Cas’ microscope. Swinging the door open, he’s greeted by Sam and Jack carrying their duffles and a couple extra steaming coffees for himself and Cas. They must have checked out at the desk and had time to run for coffee. “Ugh, thank god.” Dean groans reaching for the warm cup Sam's holding out. “Saved by the bell,” he mutters around the mouth of the lid before taking a slow sip to really savor that backwash flavor. 

Cas doesn't miss the remark, but he doesn't say anything. Dean backs up to let them both into the room, while Cas stands to grab his own cup from Jack. He doesn't need the coffee, he just likes being included.

“This coffee is shit,” decides Dean, but he keeps drinking it anyway. Cas makes it better when they're at the bunker and on some blessed mornings the angel delivers it to him too. Dean doesn't dwell on why that is, though.

“He’s not wrong,” adds Cas, with a scowl. Jack seems like he’s none the wiser.

“Best we could do without the car keys,” defends Sam with a relaxed bitch face. He sits himself down on the edge of the unmade bed and looks between Dean and Cas as he sips his own coffee with a slight grimace. “You guys catch the news yet?” 

Dean half swallows before trying to answer. “Yeah,” he sputters, eager to change the subject from wherever Cas had wanted to take it before Sam came traipsing in. “Just watched. They got the tip-off and dropped the bodies at the morgue for ID.”

“That's, uh, really good.” Sam fidgets with his coffee cup, donning that constipated look on his face again. Obviously his brain is in overdrive this morning. 

“What?” is all Dean says because he knows that look all too well.

“Do you think maybe we should stick around today? Maybe poke around the factory some more? I mean we were a little preoccupied last night, it's possible we might have missed something.”

“Uh, why? The witch got ganked, the monster got its brain pureed, the bodies got tagged, and that Wendy chick made it home in one piece. Far as I’m concerned, we can wash our hands clean of this crap and hightail it outta here in time for the early bird special.”

“I just don’t feel right leaving yet. I still have unanswered questions.”

“Like?” 

“Like why the witch cast a binding spell in the first place? Like what were they doing with those bodies? Like, if you and Cas claim it wasn’t a djinn, then what the hell was it?”

Dean couldn't care less about whatever demented motive that witch had for doing whatever the hell they were doing. The witch is dead and so is the monster and they even got a survivor out of the whole ordeal so the rest could be someone else’s problem.

“Sammy, you’re thinking too much again. It ain’t that complicated. The bad shit is dead, we saved somebody, I lived. Now to me, that calls for some well-earned R&R. Let the sheriff's department handle the rest.”

Sam’s bitch face only intensifies. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You haven’t shared what happened while you were out and Cas won’t talk either. You don’t think anything you might remember would help answer some of these questions?”

It’s way too early to barricade himself against this spontaneous onslaught, Dean thinks as he attempts another sip of his ‘coffee’. He opens his mouth to defend himself, but it’s Cas’ voice that fills the void. 

“Sam, the sheriff’s department retrieved the bodies to bring to the morgue only a few hours ago. I would imagine they must have swept the building again after the fact and it is now considered an active crime scene. Whatever it is you are hoping to find probably isn’t there anymore. I think it would be best for us to return to the bunker so that Dean can rest and if it’s necessary to substantiate the case, we can return later once the factory is no longer under investigation.”

Dean and Sam trade surprised looks, but Cas’ tone didn’t leave much room for argument. Like getting a stern talking to from a worn out father. You just kind of have to go with it. Dean chuckles, slapping Sam on the shoulder. “What he said.” 

Sam looks as though he wants to put up an argument, but he inevitably caves with an overdramatic huff. “Fine,” he says, getting back to his feet, “but I’m not just going to let this drop. I still want to know what you saw so we can figure this out, but I guess we can figure it out once we get home.”

“Mm, home,” Dean hums. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ bout. Lemme just grab my shit and then we can head out.”

***

It takes Dean all of twenty-three seconds to shove some mini shampoos and toilet paper from the motel bathroom in his duffle and zip it up before he’s heading for the door. Sam shakes his head, despite knowing Dean is like this, while Cas just looks like he’s not even surprised. Jack is waiting on the strip outside the door, still drinking his shitty coffee as the three of them pour out of the room and Dean turns to lock the door behind them. 

He drops his key off at the front desk and they make their way towards the Impala across the parking lot, tossing their bags in the trunk when they get there. Sam holds his palm open as Dean maneuvers the bags around to fit in the trunk in like a game of tetris. He looks up at Sam’s waiting hands.

“What?” he asks, forcefully shoving a bag towards the depths of the trunk.

“Keys,” answers Sam, still holding out his hand.

“Oh, hell no. I’m drivin’ home. You drive like a blind person goin’ to church at night. I’d like to make it to Lebanon some time today, Grandma.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but resigns himself to the passenger door, while Dean grumbles under his breath at all the unnecessary luggage. With a final shove, Dean slams the trunk shut and rounds towards the driver’s side, pulling the keys out of his pocket once he gets there. He unlocks and everyone takes their usual seats. Sam’s riding shotgun and Cas and Jack are riding in the bitch seats. Dean’s in the cockpit, and that’s a poor choice of words. 

***

Everything is fine. Everything except the fact that Dean feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. His eyes are fighting against the sunlight creeping higher in the sky the longer they’re on the highway. They’ve only been driving for a couple hours, but they still have a couple more hours to go and not only is Dean bone tired, his ass is going numb from hitting some mid-morning traffic.

“Can we stop for donuts?” asks Jack from the back as they drive past a chain coffee shop with mediocre coffee. “I really like the holes.” He’s sounding far too perky for Dean’s liking.

Dean ignores him and turns the radio up to drown everything out. Turning his attention back to the highway, Dean catches a glimpse of Cas in the rearview mirror and he looks just as grumpy as he did when Dean saw him this morning. Cas’ eyes flicker up to catch Dean staring and Dean promptly returns his view to the open road. 

***

For the next couple hours he avoids using the rear view mirror at all. And luckily, Sam doesn’t bother asking him anything in the car ride home. He puts his headphones in and listens to some boring podcast about yoga or conditioner or something equally flowery. He even dozes off a couple times, much to the chagrin of Dean who would kill a guy for a really good nap right now. But admitting that would just make Sam worry and make Cas that much more annoyed, so Dean says nothing and mentally tapes his eyes open instead.

A few times over the course of the car ride, Dean’s mind attempts to remind him of what he’d seen last night in his unconscious mind’s eye. Cas’ bare chest and stomach. His strong biceps and tanned skin. Hell, Dean considers Cas naked when he removes his trench coat, so seeing him without a shirt was a whole new level of mindfuck. Pun intended. His brain takes a detour running along that one vein that dipped below the hem of his pants, but soon enough he’s brought back to the present with a loud honk from another car. 

That wasn’t Cas, he reminds himself, despite the feeling pooling inside him. It didn’t really happen, he attempts to sober himself again, despite knowing that he’d had bruises where Not-Cas touched him. If he didn’t know what he’d seen, how would Sam begin to figure it out? And how was he supposed to tell Sam what the hell he’d seen, when Dean had wanted to take any feeling regarding Cas to the grave? He had been doing a damn fine job convincing himself that any and all feelings he had for Cas were strictly platonic before last night. Cas is his brother in arms. His best friend. They’d been to hell and back in the literal sense. They fought together. Shit got real. Betrayals. Reunions. The whole nine. Sure, maybe Dean’s brains got some wires crossed somewhere along the way. That could explain any untoward romantic notions he could have been experiencing in the waking world, couldn’t it? But then why was it that the mind-numbing, achingly painful erection Dean got from it felt uncomfortably real. Uncomfortably right, even. 

“Dean, the exit,” Cas says from behind him, but Dean’s lost in thought. “ _Dean._ ”

“What?” Dean looks at the overhead sign purposefully ignoring the heat spreading up to his ears. “Shit,” he exclaims, quickly getting over to take the exit. He mutters a “Jesus” under his breath while he finishes driving the rest of the ride in relative silence, sans the sounds of the blaring guitar riffs spilling out of the radio.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, sorry it took so long to update this! I started this at the same time as my other fic, Forbidden Fruit, but I'm not so good at the juggling as it turns out lol. The next chapter will be longer, I promise. xo

Per Dean’s calculations, they do in fact make it to the bunker in time for an early dinner, but by then everyone is starving because Dean drove straight through lunch. They collect their belongings from the trunk before heading inside. Making their way down the hallway from the garage, Jack is rambling on about what he wants for dinner to Sam, who still has one earbud plugged in his ear, the faint musings of the tail end of his lame podcast bouncing off the walls.

“Lasagna sounds great, Jack,” Sam says after a moment, stuffing his ipod back into his duffle. “But I think we should stick to whatever we have on hand tonight,” he decides, considering all their asses are collectively still numb from the drive home. Who wants to make a grocery run after that? 

Cas is trailing behind, while Dean leads the way into the library, flipping the switch when he rounds the corner first. The hanging lights spark on as they corral themselves into the room. 

Gesturing towards the hallway, Sam nods, “I’m gonna go get settled in... Then, I guess, we can try to scrounge around the kitchen and whip up something to eat?” He tries to meet all of their eyes, but Dean is rubbing the corners of his with the heel of his hand and Jack is back to fiddling with the flashy games on his phone. Cas doesn’t have any luggage, so he slumps into a chair by the nearest table. “Okay, cool. See you guys in twenty, I guess,” he resolves with a shrug. Not too long after, Jack follows Sam’s lead and carries his things down the hall towards his room, door closing with a thud that echoes down the empty corridor. 

And of course, that leaves Dean and Cas.

Technically speaking, Cas has all the time in the world and nowhere else to be. That fact is evident by the calculating expression he’s tossing Dean over the research table dividing them. Dean does his best to ignore the daggers being thrown at him as he hikes the strap of his duffle higher onto his shoulder. He pulls at the skin around his eyes and blinks hard to wake himself up, but the action causes Cas’ unwavering stare to slip. “Are you alright, Dean?” Cas asks, adjusting back into classic diligent soldier mode.

Breathing a small laugh, Dean forces himself to meet Cas’ concerned gaze. Sure enough, his previously inscrutable face is now chock full of the stuff. “I’m fine, Cas,” he assuages with palm raised, willing Cas to stay right where he is despite reaching that level of tired where your brain starts to enter overdrive. Awkwardly, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing towards the hall and starts to step back. “I’m gonna put my shit away and get started on dinner. I don’t trust any of you near a friggin’ stove,” he jokes, but the edge of concern is still coloring Cas’ features as he leaves the library.

Dean flicks the light on to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. Taking in a deep breath, he scans the room before letting it out slow and crosses the space to set his duffle down on the bed. If there was one thing his subconscious got right, it was the layout of his bedroom. Dean supposes that’s because he spends a large percent of his time in here, but right now it’s mildly unsettling to say the least. He pushes the thoughts from his bleary mind with a shake. This room is real. There’s no monster under the friggin’ bed, he tells himself, abruptly unzipping the bag. There’s no Cas either.

It only takes a few minutes to sort his dirty clothes into the laundry basket in the corner and to line the few smaller blades back up on the shelf behind his headboard. He tosses the shell of the duffle in the corner beside his dresser and looks back to the bed with a longing ache deep in his chest. The pressure escapes his throat with a drawn-out, muffled groan as he scrubs his hands over his face. He just wants to sleep, but he can’t. Not till tonight when he won’t have to suffer through another inquisition just for doing it. Standing with his finger over the lightswitch, he offers his bed one last longing look before releasing a hefty sigh and flicking off the switch. 

Meandering down the hall to the kitchen, he sets to work rifling through the fridge and a couple of the metal shelves serving as a makeshift pantry. They don’t have much. Dean hasn’t gone to the grocery store in over a week and it occurs to him in his search that they are indeed out of coffee. Apparently his subconscious got that right too. He groans to himself at the prospect of having to endure Cas and Sam for the rest of the evening without caffeine, and what’s worse, waking up tomorrow without any too. Oh well. He manages to scrounge together the makings for a poor excuse at Bobby’s Special Chili, which really just consists of a couple cans of premade chili he found on the shelf. The special part being the leftover hot dogs Dean found in the fridge. 

Dumping the contents of his failed scavenger hunt into a large saucepan, Dean lets it simmer as he cracks open a bottle of cold beer, letting the condensation settle between his fingers and in a ring on the metal countertop. He idly twists the bottle with one hand while occasionally stirring the pot with the other. He notes tonight’s dinner smells eerily reminiscent of exactly what it really is: Shit. But there isn't much he can do about it right now, and he hates to think Sam’s clean eating habits are having any effects whatsoever on his taste buds. Fuck vegetables.

“Dinner smells great,” exclaims Jack, rounding the corner to the kitchen with more energy than Dean thinks he's ever had. He’s changed into his pajamas already and Dean mentally kicks himself for not thinking to do the same as soon as he crossed the threshold. Coming up on his left, Jack leans over Dean’s shoulder much to his chagrin, and deeply inhales the steam curling out of the pot. “What is it?”

Dean gives Jack a warning side-eye and Jack actually catches the hint, taking a step out of his personal space. He stirs it again. “It’s shit is what it is, but it’s all we got. Sorry it ain’t lasagna.” Bringing the bottle to his lips, he takes another long pull and throws the dish rag he used to wipe his fingers over his shoulder.

“That’s alright, this smells better,” says Jack with that same dumb grin he always does.

Dean barks a single laugh. “Whatever you say, kid.”

After a few more minutes of stirring, Sam and Cas join them in the kitchen. “Bobby’s Special Chili?” Sam asks with a subtle grimace while helping Jack grab a few bowls from the top shelf and setting spoons around the table. 

“You know it,” Dean replies.

Sam grabs two beers out of the fridge for himself and Cas who’s already sat at the table as well as another for Dean. After much begging from Jack, he looks to Dean who just shrugs and then he looks to Cas who gives a curt nod. Hesitantly, Sam reaches back into the fridge to grab a fourth. “Just one,” he admonishes before handing over the bottle to eager hands.

They eat in relative silence, mostly due to the fact they’re inhaling their sorry excuse for food. Good or not, it’s the only option they got. Dean sets his spoon down with a clink and picks up his beer to wash his mouth clean of the taste. Cas obviously isn’t eating. Not that Dean hadn’t offered, of course, but he couldn’t blame the guy for not wanting to attempt this. Dean can’t count the amount of times Bobby used to force it on him and Sam when they’d stay at his house.

When their meal is almost through, not having endured any questioning, Dean thinks he’s home free, until Sam sets his spoon down in his bowl as well and gives Dean that hesitant look he gets when he’s contemplating how best to phrase something. Dean narrows his eyes at him over the top of his beer and slowly lowers it to the tabletop. “Don’t, Sam,” he warns. Sam’s eyebrows inch up his forehead in surprise, but Dean doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Dean knows damn well what goes through his head on any given day. Today’s no exception. 

“I wasn’t,” he sputters to Dean, contemplating his spoon again. It clinks down as he releases it with a worn out sigh. “No, you know what, I want to figure this crap out, Dean. I can’t just sit around without knowing any of the details. Nothing about this makes sense! That doesn’t worry you?”

“It’s done, Sam. We went over this already.”

“I don’t consider this case finished.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah? Well, I do. And it’s my brain you’re trying to pick at, so I think I’m the one that gets to call the shots here, don’t you?” 

Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he can tell that Cas is itching to interject for the first time all evening. A subtle panic flares in Dean’s stomach at the prospect.

“Sam, there’s always tomorrow. I think it would be best to let Dean rest tonight,” Cas says. His words are commanding, but when his eyes meet Dean’s they’re still rife with concern. “I’m sure after that, Dean will be ready to discuss the case…” His words linger between them as he glances back to Dean, air growing heavy with implication. And of course, Dean is picking up what Cas is putting down. He’s not stupid. But Dean would be pretty satisfied never to discuss any of this again. If only life were that easy. 

“Sure, can’t wait,” Dean says with a wry smile, fighting back a mental implosion.

“Is anyone going to finish the rest of the chili?” asks Jack, rising from the table with a bright smile and Dean just rolls his eyes.

“No,” they say in unison, before cleaning up and departing to their separate sleeping quarters for the night.

***

Dean’s room is dark. He likes it that way. It’s just on that edge of cool, which he prefers because being too cool is always better than being too warm. His mattress is perfectly shaped to him. The only sound he hears is the subtle snore coming from his brother down the hall and the occasional thud coming from Cas’ room. Whatever that dude gets up to at night, Dean’s never sure. But he’s used to this. It’s almost ritual at this point. And his eyes have felt so heavy for the last 24 hours that sleep sounds like water in the desert. So for the life of him, Dean can’t figure out why he’s still awake and staring at the blinking red dots on his alarm clock.

1:37AM. 

The backs of his eyes feel like they are straining to keep his eyes in the sockets. He could have swore he fell asleep at one point, but he honestly can’t remember if that was real or not. It doesn’t feel like it; he doesn’t feel any better. Either that, or the alarm clock blinking put him into some sort of trance. With a heavy sigh, he sits up in the dark and scrubs over his face, rubbing at his sore eyes. Normally in a situation like this, Dean would masturbate, but the idea of that is on the subtle verge of terrifying. 

What if Cas appeared at his door? What if that’s just wishful thinking? 

The worst part of all this is that Cas won’t let it drop, but Dean can’t blame him either. Some part of him hidden deep doesn’t want to forget about what any of this means. If drunk thoughts are true thoughts, then what the hell are subconscious thoughts? 

But it wasn’t Cas, he reminds himself for the umpteenth time today, and Sam probably isn’t wrong to be worried. Hell, if Dean weren’t a professional at running away from things he didn’t want to face, he would have agreed with Sam in a heartbeat, but as it is, Dean can’t even admit anything to himself, so why on God’s green Earth would he want to hash it out with Sam? So Sam can play Dr. Phil to Dean and Cas’ messed up situation? Yeah, no thanks.

As he lay restlessly fumbling with his blankets in the dark, Dean decides he’ll give Sam the bare fucking minimum without revealing anything too incriminating. That should satisfy Sam’s insistent desire to butt his nose into Dean’s business and will hopefully tie up some loose ends too. 

And as far as Cas goes? Dean can’t quite wrap his sleep deprived brain around that one yet.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam and Jack have taken to running together in the morning. They wake up obscenely early and hit the pavement before the idea of consciousness even enters Dean’s mind. “They like the routine” is the reasoning Dean gets whenever he prompts them. Dean doesn’t get it, but he's content enough to turn a closed eyelid or two.

The next morning is different, however, because Dean never even really slept. He can hear them quietly greeting each other down the hall and he can hear the heavy weight of the bunker door close behind them when they leave. And he’s still awake when they come back an hour or so later. He still doesn't get it.

Luckily for Dean, they must have run down to the convenient store, because the wafting scent of coffee brewing is the only thing willing him to get out of his damn bed. With bare feet slapping against the cold floor, Dean wraps the tie of his robe around his waist and cinches it, stepping into his slippers at the door, before he turns to walk like the dead towards the fresh promise of caffeine. 

Sam is sat with a steaming mug at the table, while he and Jack scour the local obituaries in the newspapers he must have picked up, searching for a new case like they didn't just get back from one. Out of all the mornings Dean would’ve preferred his coffee in bed, this is at the top of the list, but here he is anyway. 

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks, hand scrubbing over his face, in an attempt to be casual as he pours himself a cup.

“In his room,” Jack answers, distantly, still absorbed in his paper.

Sam sets his paper down on the table and takes a sip of coffee, suddenly choking it down with a sputtering cough. “Jesus, Dean, you look like crap.”

Dean scoffs. “Thanks, Sammy,” he says, lazily lifting his mug in cheers and swallows a large gulp. “Could say the same about you.” 

Sam throws a face and returns his attention to the paper. 

He isn't wrong though. Dean’s eyes are bloodshot and the dark stains pulling under his eyes after two nights without sleep aren’t helping anything. His hair is sticking in a million different directions and, were it longer, he'd probably look similar to Cas.

As if on cue, Cas enters the kitchen, shrugging into his trenchcoat like he’s donning battle armor. He smiles in greeting to Jack who is now scanning the Sunday morning funnies, not having found anything weird enough to warrant their expertise, but then he follows Sam’s creased expression towards the pile of shit that is Dean, leaning his ass against the edge of the metal counter and cupping his coffee in his palms like he’s sipping from the holy grail.

“Dean--” he starts, but he’s cut off when Dean raises a palm to stop him.

“Don’t even say it, Cas. I already know I look like a flaming bag of dog shit.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Based on his expression, Cas already knows the answer.

“Maybe?” Dean reflects back to the occasional bouts of sleep he must have gotten if the few minute intervals in the alarm clock were anything to go by. “No dreams, but I guess that ain’t such a bad thing, eh?” He sucks down more of the coffee while the other three shoot him their best constipated faces.

“Are you going to tell us what happened?” asks Jack, cutting straight to the point with much less finesse than Cas has ever attempted.

Huffing into his coffee, Dean remembers what he told himself last night. The bare minimum. He might as well get this over with. 

“Fine,” he concedes, crossing the kitchen and sitting himself down with Sam and Jack at the table. He specifically notes that Cas doesn’t, but that’s probably because the only open seat left is next to Dean. Maybe that's for the best.

Choosing instead to lean himself against the doorframe of the kitchen, Cas has that same nervous look in his eye that he had yesterday, but he doesn’t say anything, he just waits for Dean to speak. 

Dean sips on his hot coffee avoiding their waiting eyes. Tossing around where to start, he settles on the beginning. It’s as good a place as any, he figures. He sets his coffee down slow and looks to Sam who has an annoyingly expectant look on his face. 

“Okay, so it’s like this,” he starts, hesitant. “I, uh, I fucked up the words to Cas’ spell.” He ignores the feeling of Cas’ inevitable ‘I told you so’ and presses on. “I found the hex bag, said the wrong mumbo-jumbo, there was a flash and then I was gone, man. Next thing I know, I’m wet and in the bunker, but it’s not like… the bunker, y’know?”

Sam tilts his head. “What?”

Dean exhales another exasperated breath. He’s getting too old for this crap. “It’s like the factory and the bunker animorphed in my mind or some shit, I dunno. It just wasn’t right. And then I found you guys in the basement digging around in a bunch of crap--”

“Dean, we’re in an underground bunker… The whole thing is the basement.”

“Jesus, Sam, I know that,” says Dean, voice rife with irritation. “Would you let me talk? Or I swear, I’m haulin’ ass back to my room and never leaving my friggin’ bed again.” 

Holding his palms up in surrender, Sam doesn’t say another word. 

“Right, anyway, you wanted to have a friggin’ game night of all things and I wanted to sit in my damn La-Z-Boy. We ended up playing Dirty Words, which somehow in my own subconscious, I lost to Boy Wonder over there, but that’s beside the point, and that’s basically it. So there you go, the more you know.” 

Dean stands to refill his coffee and lets Sam do with that precious information what he will, but Jack is the one to speak. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says, brows pinched in an eerily Cas-like expression.

Dean lowers his mug and simply stares. “What doesn’t?”

“Wendy told us that she’d seen her late husband in her dream.”

“Yeah, so? Good for her.”

“She told me in the car that something wasn’t right about him. He wasn’t… himself. Like he was a puppet or something.”

Dean swallows and briefly glances to Cas who seems to be fearing the exact same thing Dean is. At least, there’s that, but it's probably for different reasons. “Get to the point, kid.”

“Well, you saw the monster too, so it obviously takes the form of another person. Whoever it came to you as could form a link. It might help explain what it is or what the witch bound it for, it's nature.”

“He has a point, Dean,” Sam agrees. “You never told us how Cas found you. Who was it?”

“I’m failing to see why that’s important,” Dean says, a bit too miffed, avoiding the way Cas gulps in the corner of his vision. “Look, you wanted to know what I saw, well, that’s what I saw. As far as the thing goes, it was an ugly son of a bitch and that’s all I got, so sorry if it’s not what you were lookin’ for!” 

Dean turns to toss his mug in the sink, splashing whatever coffee was left in the basin. His hands clutching the counter, chin tilting up, as he stares off into space somewhere near the ceiling. Honestly, he’d rather be anywhere else than having this conversation.

“Dean-” is all Cas gets to say before Dean turns back around.

“You know what? I'm done talkin’ about this. It’s over. I'm goin’ back to bed,” he says, making his way for the door. Cas looks like he's going to stop him, but there's a flare of something in Dean’s eyes that makes him stand down.

The three of them are left staring at the doorway then each other, confused as anything about Dean’s flash of hostility, but Cas has his obvious suspicions. 

***

It's been hours. Dean’s thankful for that at least. Hours he's spent listening to his music, two solid Black Sabbath albums straight, sorting through his photos in his nightstand drawer. He needs one of Jack and a better one with Cas, he thinks without putting too much thought into it, pushing the neat stack back into the drawer. One of the light bulbs overhead is twitching, threatening to blow any day now, but he ignores the way it pulses on every third beat and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Everything in him feels leaden and his eyes are starting to burn. But it's been hours since anyone tried to speak to him and he revels in it until there is a solemn knock at his bedroom door.

One knuckle, three raps. 

“Go away, Cas.”

“Uh, actually, it's me,” says Sam, clearing his throat at the end.

Dean hides his eyes behind his elbow, blocking out that one light. “Oh shit, my bad. Go away, Sam.”

“Dean.” 

There's a pregnant pause on the other side of the door so Dean braces himself for the plea bargain. 

“Can we talk? Just for a second.”

Huh, straight to the point. “Not interested.” Dean makes to put his headphones back onto his ears when the door creaks open anyway: Sam standing there looking like a child waiting for permission. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say Sam opened the door just to show off his puppy dog face. Lifting his arm, “I said ‘no’, Sam. No means no.”

Sam rolls his eyes and comes into the room anyway, closing the door behind him. He waits by the door, but his eyes are still pleading a little bit. His throat clicks as he carefully sorts through his words. “Look, about earlier,” he starts, hand carding through his hair with a huff, “I know it's personal, but you're all we have to go off. I think there's more to this thing. Something we’re missing.”

“I don't care. I'm not here for the ‘sharing is caring’ bullcrap you're fishing for. The case is done in my book and this isn't show and tell, so just drop it, Sam. I told you enough. Go figure it out yourself.”

Sam gives a curt nod, absorbing Dean’s abrasive behavior, but it doesn't seem to sway him. He avoids Dean’s tired glare. In a voice hardly above a whisper, he asks, “Was it Lisa?”

“What?”

“The monster. Did it come as Lisa?”

“What?” Dean hears himself repeat it, but he's still confused how Sam could be so off base and so out of line at the same time. Sam just waits. That would be easy to explain. He could just use the out, but it doesn't sit right with him. Shaking his head, he lets out an abortive laugh. “No, it wasn't Lisa. Thought I told you to never mention her again.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean--”

“It's fine, Sam, just fuckin’ drop it.” Dean does put the headphones back on this time, deliberately turning the volume up so Sam can hear it's his cue to get the hell out. 

“Yeah. Okay, Dean.” Sam takes it for what it is.

***

Back in the library, Jack is perusing on Sam’s laptop for possible cases while Cas reads through some lore. They collectively decided that Jack wasn't allowed on Dean’s for obvious reasons. Sam and Jack share. Dean lets Cas on the rare occasion he needs to.

With a long huff of breath, Sam pops back into the library and slumps into a seat opposite of Jack, Cas watching him with concern creeping into his face.

“How is he?” Cas asks, flipping a page to seem less invested in the answer.

Sam gives a short laugh. “Oh, you know, the usual.”

A corner of Cas’ mouth lifts, almost amused were it not for the concern bleeding into his eyes. “Yes, I know very well.” After a few beats, Cas closes the book with a dusty clap and leans back into his chair, bringing a hand up to rest his chin on. His eyes meet Sam's again across the table and they exchange the same look. “Just give him some time, he’ll come around. He just needs rest.”

A sound similar to a scoff leaves Sam’s throat. “Yeah. You really believe that?”

After a long pause, “No. I suppose I don't.” Cas tries for a smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes again. 

A feeling coiling in the pit of his stomach is telling him something is still wrong with Dean. Something other than embarrassment or the usual emotional constipation they’re all so familiar with, but if Dean won't talk, Cas can't force him. It still hurts. This feeling. Something akin to rejection, he supposes. He's knows it well enough by now.

When Cas entered Dean’s mind he had no idea what he would find. He's done it before. The tranquil serenity of a fishing dock on a lazy afternoon. The familiar comforts of a small town bar with cheap beer on tap. The open road. He even remembers a time when Dean told him Anna had found him in a strip club. These aren't unexpected places for Dean's mind to wander. They make sense. For all intents and purposes, finding Dean in the bunker, in his room, makes the most sense in the world, but for the life of him, Cas can't figure out why he was there too… Like that. Because Cas told Dean he loved him once on a dirty barn floor, and was reminded time and again of his place in whatever fraternal daisy chain they have going on here.

Best friends. Brothers. Family.

The idea warms him around the edges, but it never quite makes it to the center. 

The flash of the muzzle firing. The cracking of bone. The spray of blood. The overwhelming sense of relief at finding Dean safe. He remembers those, holds onto them.

The flush of Dean’s skin. The sweat beading around his hairline. The clothes crumpled on the floor. His clothes. The breathy way Dean said his name before he came crashing through the door. These are the things Cas is trying hard to forget.

The closing of a laptop brings him back. “Uh, Cas?”

Cas swallows and shakes his head to clear it. His focus had been lost to a non distinct point over Sam’s shoulder. A point vaguely in the direction of Dean’s room, but he won't go there. There's nothing for him there. Dean won't talk. “Sorry, what?”

Jack has already left the library and Sam is standing to push in his chair. “I said it’s getting late. Couldn’t find anything. Me and Jack are heading to our rooms. You okay out here?” Sam’s eyeing him like he grew a third eye.

“Yes, of course, I'm fine.”

“Right. Well, you know where to find us if you need anything. Night, man.”

“Goodnight, Sam,” Cas says, tipping his head in reassurance. “Sleep well.”

It only takes another hour and thirteen minutes sat in self-pitying introspection before Cas heads to his own room to do more of the same. There's always tomorrow, he tells himself, but he's not convinced it will make a difference.


	7. Chapter 7

“Sam?” 

Cas is whispering as he traverses the halls of the bunker, head poking into the occasional room, on the off chance Dean is actually asleep, though he knows that even if he is, it won't be for long. Such has been the pattern since they returned; a few minutes here or there, never adding up to much. It isn't sustainable, but Dean swears he's fine even if they all know it's a lie. Cas doesn't need angelic assistance to know that much.

When he gets no reply from Sam, he tries again.

Still nothing. 

He wanders down the corridor towards Sam’s room, but the bed is made and he's long been up. He tries the kitchen next. The only signs of life are the bread crumbs left on the table and the unwashed coffee mugs and cereal bowls in the sink. Cas sighs. Dean won't be happy when he finds those. Making a mental note to clean the kitchen before Dean gets up, he exits the room and heads further towards the garage. The sight of Sam’s large frame hunched over the trunk of the impala fills him with relief and concern.

“Sam?” Cas asks softly, so Sam doesn't bump his head. 

Straightening himself out, Sam dust his hands off on his jeans and gives Cas a hasty smile. “Hey, Cas.” He continues shuffling his bags and the weaponry around.

“Where are you going?” he prompts.

Sam doesn't pause his concentration. It reminds Cas of Dean. “Jack and I are going back,” Sam says, offhandedly, in a way that sounds casual, but leaves no room for argument.

“Just the two of you?” Not that it matters, but Cas is feeling kind of left out. And if Sam and Jack leave it could get awkward. Well, more so than it already has been at least.

Finally Sam stops, one hand on the trunk hood, face ever concerned. “It’s just… I'm worried about him.” Sam says it with a sigh, keeping his voice steady. He cards a hand through his long hair, leaning his weight against the fender of the Impala, while he waits for Jack to bring his luggage to the car. “I mean, I know he has his usual routine of bottling himself up, but I don't know, Cas, I just don't feel right about not having any answers. And if Dean won't give me any, and you don’t have any then maybe Wendy will. Besides, someone should keep an eye on him and you're the best choice we've got.”

“I understand,” Cas says after a beat, the feelings of guilt weighing on him now more than before. He knows it isn't an accusation, but it may as well be. “Truthfully, I'm worried about him as well,” Cas admits. “He hasn't been sleeping for longer than ten minute increments these last few nights and I can't tell if it's by choice or a side affect of something greater. Not to mention the fact he won't leave his room for much.” They deliberate that thought in silence until Cas looks up to Sam again. “What should I tell him? He’ll want to know why the car is missing, I'm sure.”

“Oh, I left a note on the fridge.” Of course Cas missed that, he doesn’t eat so he rarely checks there. “If he asks, just tell him Jack and I caught a case somewhere close by, nothing serious, a ghost maybe? And we’re taking the Impala because it has all our gear.”

Cas nods. It makes sense.

“I just need enough time to talk to Wendy and hit the warehouse again. See if there's anything we missed.”

Cas hates lying to Dean, but it's been days since he's really slept and he's still not talking. Not to mention Dean's lying is making Cas lie through omission and they're only trying to help. They don't have much of a choice anymore, but to retrace their steps or for Dean to spill his guts. Either that, or Cas will have to do it for him, which is a gross invasion of privacy that Cas will avoid by any means necessary. 

Carefully meeting Sam’s eyes, he asks the inevitable: “And if you find nothing?” 

Sam considers it, eyebrows pinching in the middle. He clears his throat. “Well, then we’ll just have to try Rowena, I guess.” He shrugs.

“Rowena,” Cas repeats in affirmation, scuffing his shoes on the cement floor. “It’s a plan at least.”

From behind them, the door of the garage is swinging open again to reveal Jack lugging an overly full duffle bag behind him. “Ready to go, Sam,” he says, a little too chipper.

Sam eyes the bag and looks back to the cramped confines of the trunk. “That's great, Jack. Let me, uh, lets just toss that in the backseat, yeah?” Trunk slamming, they go to the side door and between the two of them it manages to squeeze in.

“Sam, you’ll call, right? If you need assistance? Or if you find something worth our attention?”

“Yeah, Cas, of course,” says Sam, smile reassuring, before lumbering into the driver’s seat.

“I'll call too,” Jack adds with a dopey grin.

“If anything changes back here, well, I'll let you both know.” Stepping back from the car, Cas waves as the pair drive off and he's left at the bunker alone… with Dean.

***

Sam and Jack make it to the halfway point a little after lunch time and as they drive they come upon a lonely Gas’n’Sip off the side of the beaten road. Now being as good a time as any, Sam decides to pull over to fill up on gas and allow for something to carry them over till they can stop somewhere to get real food later.

The bell above the Gas’n’Sip door jingles as another customer walks in. Jack is in charge of purchasing snacks per Sam’s request and he doesn’t want to mess it up, so he shifts his eyes away from the man with the wiry beard and beer gut and focuses his attention back to the nutrition label on the candy bar he’s clutching between his fingers. A Three Musketeers bar chosen primarily for the nougat. Sam told him he had to make good choices, but the longer he reads the ingredients the more he decides that what Sam doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Taking a few minutes longer, Jack peruses the aisles with the hopes he will find something green for Sam. Maybe it doesn’t have to be green, but Dean says it enough that Jack has come to understand that anything green has to be healthy. He has no such luck, though. Most of the food here is toxically vibrant hues of red and orange, maybe the hint of blue in the slushie machine. Jack grabs a bag of Funyuns simply because it sounds like the word ‘onion’ and he can see through the glass that Sam is replacing the gas nozzle into the pump. 

At the register, he can also see the beer gutted man in front of him buying a tin of chewing tobacco and a pornographic magazine and he leans over to tell him, “Chewing tobacco is bad for you,” just in case the man wasn’t aware.

The man slowly turns his head around, face far from welcoming. “You don’t say?”

“Yes, it’s actually believed to be more dangerous than smoking,” Jack asserts.

“Well, who in the hell asked you?”

Jack tilts his head and thinks about the question. “No one, I suppose. I’ve never been to hell. Does one need to be asked to share knowledge there?”

The bell jingles again as the man opens his mouth to say something probably none too kind.

“Hey, sorry, he didn’t mean anything by it,” assuages Sam, gently, to calm the man down. How would Sam know if he meant it though? That’s silly.

“Yes, I did--” Jack starts, but Sam’s leading him away while the man finishes paying for his order.

Looking over his shoulder, Sam waits until the man is out the door and walking back to his rusted out truck with the squeaky hinges, before he turns back to look at Jack. He sighs. “Jack, you can’t just go around saying things to people, not like that. There’s a time and a place for some things, and sometimes people aren’t as friendly as you’d hope they’d be. Especially not in the backwoods and especially not people like him,” he adds with a slight chuckle. They really were in the middle of nowhere right now.

Jack considers it, but nods eventually. “I understand,” he says with a smile.

Sam smiles back, patting him on the arm. “Great,” he says, before his eyes trail down to the armful of snacks Jack managed to pick out. He sighs again, resigning himself to never let Jack go grocery shopping with Dean ever again. “Let’s find some better options, huh?”

Hesitantly, Jack asks, “Can I keep the candy bar?”

Deciding he doesn’t want to argue about it, Sam says, “Okay, sure, but just one.”

They pay for the gas on pump 4 and they pay for the now exchanged snacks, some granola bars, apples, string cheese, water, and of course, the candy bar, before climbing back into the bench seat of the Impala. The engine rumbles to life and Sam checks his phone, finding nothing, before putting her into drive. He’s surprised honestly that neither Dean nor Cas have texted to either check up or to ream him a new asshole for taking the car. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned by that, but he chooses to be neither, because feelings like that were risky all things considered. 

Reaching over to the knob on the radio, Sam adjusts the station to some light indie music that Dean would most decidedly hate, having once referred to it as “pussy rock”, but Jack seems content enough to eat his candy bar and listen to it and, for that, Sam is grateful.

***

He used to command a garrison and fight heavenly battles, he reminds himself as he reaches for the sponge again, half-pondering just exactly how much his life has changed over the course of the last decade. 

Cas doesn't actually mind washing dishes or cleaning the counters for that matter. It gives him something to do around the bunker when everyone else is preoccupied at the very least. Like right now. Dean hasn't left his room yet and Sam and Jack haven't been gone too long, so he just stares off into space and cleans the kitchen. He allows the pads of his fingers to get pruney under the water before he decides the dishes were probably clean enough a while ago.

It strikes him again that he and Dean are indeed alone in the bunker, Dean now sans Impala, and he knows he told himself if Dean didn't want to talk he couldn't force him, but maybe that wasn't necessarily true. Maybe the only way to get Dean talking was to have the conversation anyway. 

But that’s selfish, Cas thinks, as he starts the coffee maker.

Dean has more pressing issues to contend with, Cas tells himself as he pours Deans coffee into his favorite mug. The one with the chip in it, for whatever reason.

Dean doesn't feel the same way about him. Not the way Cas feels. It was all a giant misunderstanding, he's convinced himself by the time he’s stood outside Dean’s bedroom door holding a steaming mug of coffee just the way Dean likes it in one hand while the other raises to knock.

Ever the charmer, Dean grumbles, “Yeah, what,” like he's halfway to dead. Cas shakes the thought. It's not funny. They don't know what's wrong with him yet. But it does make him question why he feels compelled to bring the man coffee in bed when he's got two functioning legs. 

Cas swallows down the reason.

“Hello, Dean,” he says instead, proffering the coffee like a peace offering, but he doesn't enter the room. He hasn't dared since that night. “I just thought you could use this more than me. May I come in?”

Dean grunts as he wills his body to roll over. His hair is exceptionally disheveled this morning, more than usual even, and there's dried saliva crusting on his chin. Wordlessly, he holds out a hand.

Suppressing an eyeroll, Cas crosses the room. Not for the first time, he thinks to himself being in Dean’s room is incredibly awkward and he wonders if Dean weren't addled by sleep right now would he find it just as bizarre as Cas? The question lingers as he hands Dean the coffee and when Dean’s fingers brush over Cas’ he tries his best not to let the tension show because Dean seems oblivious to it.

Dean is practically gulping the coffee and Cas is surprised he isn't choking himself with it. “You make this just for me?” His voice is vaguely teasing all things considered.

“No,” Cas lies, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his dress pants.

“Bullshit.” The hint of a smile lifts Dean’s lips as he taps the chip on the lip of the mug. “Nobody likes a liar, Cas.”

Cas could say the same thing back. “How did you sleep?” He asks instead in an attempt to change the conversation. Sizing him up with a squint, he says, “You look terrible.”

“Yeah?” Dean chuckles. “I dunno, you look alright,” he says with some noncommittal shrug, but Cas feels like blushing about it anyway. Cas doesn't say anything though, he just waits. 

“I, uh,” Dean starts, bringing a hand up to scrub at his bleary eyes. “I tried to take some Nyquil? Dayquil? Whatever-the-quil to knock myself out, but I think it backfired. Just made it worse. Still a little out of it though.” Wrapping his palms around the mug, he drinks the rest of the coffee slower this time. “Coffee’s good,” he says, handing the now empty mug back.

Cas takes it, but concern has crept into his face again. He curses himself for not being more useful in this situation. He can't heal Dean, he's already tried more than once. Dean won't sleep, Dean won't talk to him. Cas is too afraid to talk to Dean and he fears the moment may have passed. Sam and Jack are gone and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do right now. He feels altogether useless. 

But he could fix Dean some more coffee, so that's exactly what he does.

Eventually Dean finds his way into the kitchen following the scent of another pot of coffee brewing. He doesn’t trust Cas to make the food. Cas never blames him. His head is still foggy as he digs around looking for something to eat for breakfast? Lunch?

What time even was it and where the hell were Sam and Jack?

“Hey, Cas?” Dean asks when he’s coming up blank. 

“Yes, Dean?” he calls back from the other room.

“The hell are Sam and Jack?”

Cas rounds the corner into the kitchen from the library and stands in the doorway. “Oh, um, they found a case that they decided warranted attention,” he says, but he says it weird. Overly business-like.

“A case, huh?”

He gives an astute nod. “Yes, a ghost I believe Sam said.”

“Oh yeah? He say where this ghost is?”

Cas looks adrift. Dean knows he’s lying. “No, it never came up,” he goes with.

“Huh.” Rolling his eyes, Dean turns back to the pantry shelves to pretend to search for something to eat. All things aside, there’s nothing good on the shelves, but he still shuffles some cans around to look preoccupied. “He didn’t think it required all hands on deck?”

“No,” Cas says from behind him. His voice is closer now, having moved into the room to stand at the center island. “It didn’t seem serious. He figured Jack could use the practice.”

Sure, Dean thinks to himself, not buying it for a single second. Scruffing a hand through his pillow matted hair, Dean huffs and turns to face Cas. He looks way too well-rested, per usual for a guy that doesn’t even require sleep, and he’s looking at Dean wary, like a science experiment he’s waiting to explode. Not to mention, his eyes look exceptionally blue today, which is all around no fucking fair.

“Well we still got jackshit to make here,” he says breaking the staring contest he’d been trying to avoid, moving towards the exit with a gaping yawn as his slippers scuffle on the floor. “Think I’m gonna get my ass in some clothes and head to the store.”

“Oh, actually…” Cas’ voice trails off into uncertainty, but it’s enough to stop him, prompting Dean to turn around and really look at him.

“What?” Whatever it is, Dean knows he won’t like it.

“Sam and Jack, they um, they took the Impala,” Cas explains in one burst, mouth turning into a small grimace.

***

Once they’ve reached town, they book a room at the Pink Flamingo Motel again. Not for the luxurious amenities, but because it’s location is convenient enough between the warehouse and Wendy’s house. 

They still have time to kill before it’s late enough to go traipsing through the abandoned factory, so Sam decides after having deposited their belongings in the motel room, it would be best for them to go out and find a nearby restaurant or diner. If Dean were here, he would go up to the girl at the front desk, flirt a little and somehow manage to come away with meal coupons to the closest greasy diner near the joint. Sam knows this without fail. But he also thinks that Jack shouldn’t be learning those kinds of behaviors or turning his arteries into grease traps to match Dean’s, so pilfering the shoddy motel wifi, Sam pulls up an app on his phone offering a better selection of healthy eating options that he and Jack can share together.

Jack groans. “I was really hoping we could go out for cheeseburgers,” he says petulantly.

Sam isn’t sure if he inherited that trait from Cas or from Dean. Maybe it was in equal measure. “Well, IHOS has veggie burgers. It’s practically the same thing,” Sam appeals, scrolling their menu.

“No, Sam, if it were the same they would just call it a cheeseburger.”

Scrubbing a hand over his stubble, Sam sighs, giving Jack his best stern dad look. Clearly, it had to be Dean again. 

Nevertheless, they end up going to the greasy diner a couple blocks away anyway.

“Sam, can I ask you something?” Jack asks eventually. He wipes the ketchup and mustard from his chin and lowers the crumpled napkin to the table while he waits for Sam to chew his salad.

“Yeah, of course, Jack,” he says, only after he’s finished his bite. “Go ahead.” Sam is determined to teach Jack table manners, whether he’s alone in that endeavor or not.

Jack pauses, eyebrows pinching as he thinks. “Why are we lying to Dean?”

Spearing a few less than crisp, leafy greens with his fork, Sam considers the best way to answer the question. Lying was a tricky thing in their family. It’s basically the Winchester way. Do something behind the other’s back purely because it’s in their best interest. Lie about it the whole time until everything works itself out in the end. The ends justify the means every time. At least, that’s the kind of shoddy moral high ground they tended to use. It’s worked so far. Still, Jack wants a genuine answer and he deserves to hear some reasoning that’s sounder than their messed up upbringing.

Sam sighs. “Sometimes doing what’s best for someone requires lying,” he says after a moment. “Lying isn’t good, Jack, so I don’t want you to think it’s the right way to do things… Just sometimes, if your intentions are good, it’s best to leave out parts of the truth. Especially when it comes to Dean because he’s stubborn as hell.”

Really, it’s because Dean’s blatantly lying to all of them. 

“So, in this case, lying is a good thing?”

Sam weighs the question. “In this case, yeah, I guess it is. We need to help Dean and this is the only way he’ll let us.” 

Jack makes to lift his burger to his mouth again, but it hovers midair between the plate and his face. “Do you think Dean is lying to us?”

Releasing a noise somewhere between a huff and a laugh, Sam says, “I know he is.”

“Why?”

Sam shrugs. “It’s just what he does, when he’s trying to protect... himself sometimes, but usually, it’s what he does when he’s trying to protect me. He’s done it since we were kids I guess, but I can always tell. I’m not sure who he’s trying to protect this time.”

Jack nods. They don’t really say anything else on the subject for the rest of their meal.

***

“Oh, you gotta be friggin’ kidding me!”

“Dean, you shouldn’t be driving in your condition anyway,” Cas appeals from the driver’s seat of his tiny, blue clown car. “It’s dangerous. Besides, I’m perfectly capable of operating a vehicle whether you like to think so or not.”

Tugging on the constrictive seatbelt Cas had forced on him when they squeezed into this death trap, Dean grumbles, “Yeah, and what does this make me? Miss Daisy?”

“If you’d prefer, then sure, by all means,” Cas sasses right back.

Dean scoffs, but he’s actually slightly amused. “Sometimes I forget you got that upload. Kinda miss when the joke flew over your head.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, I still don’t know what you’re talking about half the time regardless.” 

Dean laughs outright, head falling back on the seat. “Honestly, I don’t either.” The light turns green and Cas eases on the gas like he really is carting around an elderly woman, if not acting like one himself. “C’mon, grandpa, pedal to the friggin’ medal already. We don’t got all day and I’m fuckin’ hungry.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but does nothing to speed the car up much to Dean’s annoyance. Dean thinks he’s probably doing it out of spite, just for the sole fact that Dean’s been doing his darndest to avoid Cas for the better part of a week. Hell, if Dean were in Cas’ position he wouldn’t even blame him. And if he’s being honest with himself, which he very rarely is, Dean would have to say keeping himself away from Cas was the exact opposite of what he wanted to be doing this whole week, all things considered. Sometimes the guy was fun to be around when he wasn’t acting like a grumpy asshole. Like right now.

“Actually,” Cas says, “I have all the time in the world.”

Fucking immortal asshole.

***

He’s grumpy, Dean knows that. He always is to some extent. It’s like a baseline personality type deal or something, but Dean’s only making it worse. Add to that, Cas is treating him with kid gloves on, like he’s going to spontaneously combust at any given moment, and Dean could accurately say they’ve had better times together.

They return from what felt like the longest trip to the grocery store Dean could have possibly imagined, but he has food now and that suits him just fine. Dropping the paper bags on the counter, Dean starts in to put away the groceries doing everything in his power to not let shit get awkward while its just himself and Cas here. It’s not like he can escape now even if he wanted to and, as much as he won’t say it out loud, he’s silently reveling in the notion as Cas reaches over to grab some of the food from his hands and helps him put it away on the shelf.

“Thanks,” he says, keeping his chin down. There’s no reason to look Cas in the eye more than necessary, he’s already done that too many times this week. Each time preceding another bout of holing himself up in his room. Cas doesn’t need to know why. And Dean really is bone tired.

“Of course,” Cas says, because he always does.

There’s tension here and Dean doesn’t know how to cut it, so he simply offers, “Wanna help me make dinner?” and it seems to work infinitesimally. 

Cas is staring again, and damn it, Dean lifts his eyes to stare back just to see what Cas is thinking. He blinks as though he’s processing the invitation and Dean thinks if he blinked right now he’d miss the almost nonexistent pull of his lips when he says, “I’d like that.”

And so they do. 

Cas elects to chop the vegetables he forced upon Dean at the store due entirely to the fact he claims Dean is too tired to brandish sharp objects. He’s not wrong, but Dean still put up a fight. And secretly, Dean really does like vegetables sometimes, and after a few wise cracks, Dean relents his grip on the knife and moves to put a pot of water on the stove for some potatoes. They don’t talk about much, but the quiet doesn’t feel strained anymore either. Dean just thanks whoever that Cas doesn’t try to bring up anything unfavorable that Dean could tell was just simmering below the surface during every other interaction they’d had this week. Somehow, it’s easy. 

Dean eats his meal much the same way, forking a few potatoes and shoving them in his mouth any time he can’t think of anything to say, but he’s not really trying to talk either. He doesn’t trust himself. When he’s finished he pushes himself off the seat at the table and makes for the sink to wash up the dishes.

“I can help with that too, if you’d like,” offers Cas, standing only a few feet away.

Dean glances up at him and then back towards the dirty dishes piled in the sink. “Yeah, okay,” Dean decides. “Grab a rag.”

The process goes twice as fast thanks to Cas drying and Dean almost looks like he wants to smile at him, but he doesn’t. Resignation creeps back onto Cas’ face now that he realizes dinner is over with and Dean will probably want to head back to his room. Back to avoiding him. He’s about to ditch Dean altogether, walk his way over to sit in the library by himself, minding his own business, until an arbitrarily acceptable time has been reached for him to return to his own room and feign a human routine. It’s all very tiresome, Cas thinks, as he heads for the door. But then Dean clears his throat and Cas pauses just short of it and turns back to look at him.

“Do you, uh,” Dean starts, nerves or something like it catching the words in his throat. “Do you want to watch a movie or somethin’?”

“Yes,” Cas says without pause, hating the way the word sounds too overeager, but it can’t be helped now. It’s just lingering there between them, waiting for Dean to do something with it.

Whether he means to or not, Dean flashes a smile and gives a tired, jerky nod. “Well, okay,” he says. And it feels like a start.


End file.
